Broken Man
by MrsJavert
Summary: The Seine should have swallowed him, pulled him under, damned his soul and granted him the death he sought. Having been pulled close to death from the river, his body may have healed but his mind is as fractured as the moment he plunged into the water. With no one to turn to Javert is condemned to a mental asylum and left to the mercy of his own ravaged thoughts.
1. Those who falter and those who fall

_In Victor Hugo's Les Miserables book Javert is, just prior to his suicide, a man at war with himself about wether to arrest Valjean. It is not a simple Yes/No decision and, for Javert, there is no correct answer other than to remove himself from the equation. It is as if two sides of his personality are quite literally fighting each other._ _Now add to that how his appearance is a complete wreck in the stage version during his suicide and then combine the two - basically he's had/having a major mental breakdown._ _I wondered what would happened if he survived the suicide attempt in his current mental state._ _I am unsure wether to leave this as a one shot or to add more to it. I do have a plot planned where things get a little better for our Inspector, please do comment as I would a) love to know if anybody is out there and reading this and b) wether you would like me to continue._

Broken Man

"Damnation...", a whisper.  
Silence followed, as cold as the night itself.  
"Damnation...", again.  
"Damnation...", the whisper grew.  
The words, seething frustration, faded to nothing after each utterance in the dark, soul destroying, confines.  
Darkness enveloped the cell in almost its entirety, a small barred window set high up the wall well above the occupants head permitted the entry of only a very small amount of the cold moonlight.  
Below this window sat the wretched, rag clad, being to whom the cell was now home.  
There he sat alone in the shadows, a broken man, his back resting against the cold, damp stone of the wall. Damp, stale straw over the stone floor and a bucket for necessities were the only items he had been permitted.  
His legs sprawled out straight before him were covered by ragged trousers with a hole forming at one knee.  
His feet were bare and caked with dirt. His ankles were rubbed raw, the flesh bloody and torn where his shackles had been fastened in place.  
The shackles secured a short length of strong chain, no more than a few inches in length, allowing him to take very small stumbling steps when he rarely raised himself to his filthy feet.  
This man, this figure of intense torment, sat hunched forward. His head fell forward, burying his face in his equally dirty hands.  
His wrists too were shackled together, another bloody mess of torn and scraped skin underneath the rusting metal showed clearly the full force of a man who had regularly struggled so fiercely against them.  
The wretch's final restraint was a rusty metal collar, firmly locked in place around his neck, from which a chain atleast a metre long ran to an iron ring secured to the wall. This length of chain enabled the ragged man to sit down, to stand up, but to go no further. He was tethered, like a dog.  
"Damnation..."  
The voice whispered again, his face buried in his hands which were in turn obscured by his long and bedraggled dark grey hair which hung loose and forlorn.  
The whisper was gruff.  
"Damnation...Eternal Damnation!"  
With each whisper the man's breathing began to increase in intensity, force, and aggression.  
The man ran his fingers into his long greying hair, bunching up a fistful of the hair to the rattle of his wrist shackles.  
"Damnation!"  
His whisper became a voice, finally penetrating the darkness.  
"Damnation for *your* crimes!", the figure sneered, clenching his fingers and pulling at his fistful of hair.  
"Damnation for *your* deeds!".  
Releasing the hair the man struggled against his shackles with all his strength, pulling his wrists apart in an attempt to force a link to break.  
The chains chinked and rattled in response but did not yield, holding ever firm against the struggle.  
"Damnation for *your* redemption!".  
He grew louder still, his voice filling with danger and spite as he ceased fighting the wrist shackles.  
His hands reached for his accursed neck collar and tugged at it, then reached up for the chain that held him collared to the wall and pulled, an animalistic growl emanating deep from within him as he did so.  
"My damnation for *your* redemption Valjean!?"  
After fighting it with all his strength the chain failed to give. The man slumped down, his back against the wall, panting from exertion and rage.  
"Is this justice Valjean?", he rambled letting out a vast sigh and cast his eyes down as his unstable thoughts continued tormenting him.  
"Is it justice that a moral man, a just man, a just...thief, a just...criminal, go free?".  
He gave his wrist shackles a slight tug, the chain clinked sharply in reply, biting his flesh in confirmation of its presence in response.  
"And is it just and right that Javert wear the shackles in your place Valjean?".  
Silence prevailed for some moments, his uneven thoughts weighing up the pros and cons of the question, before he leant forward and spoke again, raising his chained wrists before his eyes and staring at them.  
"It is just", he looked down and, in answer to his own question, dropped his wrists back into his lap.  
Sighing in resignation he closed his eyes for several seconds.  
"It is just"  
"It is right"  
"It... is... just..."  
There was silence again before his eyes suddenly snapped open once more, wild and burning with sudden outrage.  
"But it is not the law!", he spat tugging at his wrists again.  
Once more he fought at his damned bonds, desperate to free himself from the shackles which tore away yet more flesh with each frantic tug and twist of his wrists.  
"Is there one law for Valjean now and one law for the rest?", he snarled, sheer venom resonating through his voice, "NO!".  
"There is only law! One law! The law!"  
Once again his resistance peaked, his wrists and ankles twisting and pulling in desperation, his collar chain holding him in his filthy patch of ground by the wall, choking him each time he pulled forward against it. And then he calmed as his fight once again began to leave him.  
As his body relaxed and he fell back against the wall in resignation he felt the warmth of the blood trickling from his wrists and seeping into the rags of his filthy trousers.  
He breathed deeply several times where he sat, attempting to compose himself and calm his fractured thoughts.  
"But what of the law of God?", he spoke out suddenly, eyes wide with alarm.  
He looked up and strained his body forward, turning his head desperately to try and glimpse the small barred window above him beyond which held the night sky and it's stars.  
The chain of his collar became taught as he leant. The window was not to be seen from his position.  
He lowered his eyes in dejection and, head bowed, dropped back to his former position.  
"The law of God...", he repeated, "authority... higher authority... I failed it".  
"I did not merely fail it...", he shook his head as he felt a wave of deep shame, "I broke it. Gods law... The ultimate of all sins".  
He sat unmoving in total silence for seconds that bit with sheer cold.  
"Suicide!", he finally spat the word.  
Silence again, as if the word had left the foul taste of shame in his mouth.  
A faint clink of one of his chains sounded as he breathed.  
"Valjean could have killed me at the barricade", he muttered before looking up, "Valjean SHOULD have killed me at the barricade!".  
Quickly his breathing grew rapid and once more the chains holding him were struggled against. The pain of the shackles digging deep into the flesh of his wrists and ankles no longer registered as his mind sped and a surge of adrenalin rushed through his tattered body.  
"My life will NOT be saved by a CONVICT!", he again began to raise his voice until he cried out for all his worth - "A bullet in the back would have at least been honourable Valjean!".  
Struggling to change position he finally shuffled to his scuffed knees, all the while pulling at his bloodied wrist shackles.  
"You cannot go free Valjean! You cannot go free! The law forbids it!"  
In desperation the figure raised his wrists closer to his face and bit fiercely into the chain that secured them. A taste of metal, dirt and blood filled his mouth as his teeth - the only weapon available to him - tried in vain to break the chain.  
He growled with all his might as he bit, the blood of his wounded wrists seeping into his mouth.  
Once more, the chain did not give under the strain of this latest onslaught.  
Acknowledging this defeat, he released the chain and thumped the stone floor with all his force before falling forward, crumpled in a heap against the wall and gasping as the chained collar prevented him from falling completely to the floor.  
"You cannot go free Valjean... You cannot go free...", he repeated in manic breaths leaning his forehead against the stone of the wall, "...and yet... Yet I could not arrest you!".  
"Your freedom is an abomination..." he hissed, verbally working through his broken, disordered thoughts, "and that...that, Valjean is why I had to die".  
He stifled something that was almost a chuckle, "it was at least... Why I *tried* to die".  
"Valjean your almost 'Holy' goodness mocks me...", he rambled into the stone, the only thing that was ever willing to listen, "I strive on the side of justice for decades and yet you...this...this...convict-come-Saint brings me to heel like a dog!".  
He placed a strong, distasteful emphasis on the word "dog".  
He struggled harshly once again, his chains clanking and rattling as he fought, shook and pulled at them like a wounded animal frantically attempting to escape a trap. One chain was all that needed to break, just one.  
A cold sweat formed all over his body as his breathing became rapid and more intense. He felt his heart rate increase rapidly, roaring in his chest out of control as his pulse began to race.  
His mind blurred, a frenzy of images flashed through his mind of encounters with Valjean, of taking that one fateful step off the Pont au Change bridge, the water, the cold, cold water... He could feel his pulse race even faster in his neck as his thoughts raced out of control...  
And then everything stopped.  
The wretched form of the Police Inspector fell limp against the wall, his body was wracked with an uncontrollable shaking, his breath being drawn in frenzied gasps.  
What little light there was glinted off something watery as tears began to stream their way down his face, dripping unwiped from his chin.  
He hung there sobbing, his collar chain preventing him from collapsing completely.  
"Kill me Valjean...", his cracked voice begged.

"Please Valjean..."

"Kill me..."

END.

_At the end of this chapter Javert is basically having a massive anxiety attack. He is a strong man, a very strong man, but sadly strong people are often the ones who fall victim to these awfull things and fall apart._  
_I have experience of these myself and I have tried my best to depict what it feels like when everything spins out of control, thoughts make no sense and heart and pulse rates just go mental. I hope that came across okay._ _Comments appreciated x_


	2. Instead I live, but live in Hell

Broken Man - Chapter 2

_"It was my right to die as well_  
_ Instead I live... but live in hell."_

With the rattle of a chain the figure in the shadows leant forward, reaching out with his shackled wrists to grasp the rusted metal cup that contained his meagre daily ration of drinking water.  
His dirty hands retrieved it just as his neck chain pulled his collar, preventing him from leaning any further forward.  
He sat back, the cold of the stone wall seeping into every muscle of his aching back as he looked down into the cup.  
The dark of the night made it too hard to see but from the weight of it he could tell there was not much left.  
He took a deep breath then breathed out slowly, placing the cup down within reach next to him.  
His chest rattled as he exhaled, as it had done for the last few days, and within a moment he began to cough violently. His chains chinked as every harsh cough shook them.  
Reaching out for the cup, he grasped it with both chained hands and brought it to his mouth.  
The water, as ever, tasted dull. His fatigued muscles relaxed as he felt the cold liquid wash it's way down his throat as he drank, soothing - at least temporarily - that which sickened him.  
The cup was now almost empty and he placed it back down, acknowledging the need to conserve what little remained of his water until morning when it would be replaced.  
He shuffled uncomfortably where he sat on the ground, chains clinking as he moved, turning himself to sit leaning side on to the wall, his head resting against the stone.  
Javert sighed. Illness was not something which had regularly afflicted him in life.  
On the very rare occasion that he had fallen ill, his attitude had been to simply get on with his job, show no obvious weakness for criminals or victims to see, and to ensure he then got a good nights rest during his own personal time. A subordinate would have to be at deaths door before Javert would dismiss him from duty for the day, and even then it was merely to preserve efficiency by removing a sick man from the company of his men.  
His men, he thought... His men were long gone. Perhaps they spoke of him occasionally... Perhaps he was forgotten to them... Or perhaps he was something best not spoken of.  
Javert closed his troubled eyes as he leant against the wall, his cold legs bunched up alongside him for warmth.  
He reached down with his hands and adjusted an ankle shackle that was rubbing a particularly raw piece of flesh. It stung greatly as it was disturbed but he managed to pull the accursed thing down just enough to relieve the pain, at least a little, from the bloodied sore his ankle bore.  
His men might have forgotten him, but what of Valjean?  
He wondered deeper, sensing within him that the dark, confused, thoughts that regularly attacked and violated his once proud and rigidly controlled mind were again brimming to the surface.  
He fought this powerful demon every night, fighting to be spared from the war within his own personality that tore him between thoughts of an urge to rip his chains from the wall and hunt down his just and legal prey, and thoughts that made him long desperately for his own death, be at his own hands... Or often, those of Valjean. Would that be justice?  
"Does he now live like a king?", Javert asked himself as the thoughts stirred like ripples in his mind, "does he take a daily stroll, pressing coins into the hands of gutter life, ever the good Christian?".  
He wheezed, his teeth gritting in utter resentment as he envisioned the thought of Valjean, the ever patronising, handing out coins to the filth and pickpockets of the street.  
Another ragged cough brought him briefly out of his deepening thoughts, his breathing rasping as his irritation aimed at Valjean tensed him.  
He would not fight his infernal chains tonight. His will was ever present yet his strength was not. The smallest of movements were provocation enough for his ailment to rob him of breath.  
"Valjean is redeemed...", he whispered, "Valjean is redeemed. Javert... It is Javert who is damned, Javert who MUST be damned."  
Even now, months after jumping from the Pont au Change bridge, Javert still struggled to fathom which path - arresting Valjean or allowing him freedom - was correct.  
The thoughts twisted and turned, fighting intensely for dominance on a nightly basis, swirling his mind into a turmoil of right mixed with wrong.  
"His sins are wiped clean...", he insisted into himself in the darkness, "his life has meaning... Those around him prosper...".  
Another cough wracked him harshly, then a hushed silence fell.  
His eyes darted in unease, wild like an animal, his traumatised mind processing the torrent of disordered thoughts that ever tormented him.  
"Parole...parole breaking", he began as he sat up straight with an air of alertness, "his crime remains! His crime cannot simply be un-committed!".  
His chained hands bunched into fists before him, hands that could so easily have grasped Valjean tightly all those months ago like the claws of an eagle swooping on its prey.  
"The law says arrest!", he rasped and then suddenly fell back into a dejected position, his shoulders slumped ,"...but morality says no."  
Once again his nauseating cough took a hold of him, his ability to breathe once again hindered until it passed.  
The sensation, the inability to grasp the smallest of breaths, revived fragmented memories of drowning.  
"And Javert...", he gasped, "Javert is no more... Javert must bare this damnation, brought upon himself... This damnation deserved..."  
He closed his eyes, his soul feeling as dark as the cell itself.  
The cold of the stone emanated into his head as he leant. Opening his eyes Javert could clearly see his own loathsome breath in the tiny amount of moonlight that entered.  
It was indeed a very cold night.  
Before his tiredness could envelop him he again felt the rattle within his chest as he breathed.  
Slowly Javert took one more breath and braced himself before the cough returned.  
Each cough again shook his body, a relentless attack that continued unabated, sparing him scarcely any mercy to allow breath.  
Reaching out again, Javert grabbed his bucket, an item of humiliation, and spat into it the vile mucus his illness was causing the cough to dredge up from his infected chest.  
He sat unmoving for several moments, exhausted, steadying his breathing once again and pushed the bucket away in disgust.  
Once more he slumped, leaning his side against the wall. His back had become terribly sore in places where the stone had rubbed over the months during which he had spent chained to this spot.  
Once more he leant his head against the stone, his back feeling the obvious relief but his chest aching terribly from the strain of the coughing.  
He closed his eyes and tried to breathe slowly. He knew from the last few nights that this was a position he could eventually fall asleep in. His neck chain was slack and his body slowly relaxed as sleep finally took him - although the nightmares never left him.


	3. You must think me mad!

_I have to take this moment to clarify that I set this story in a world that is a mixture of both the book and stage versions of Les Mis. I adore both but there may be references to one or the other and I'm afraid doesn't have a category for stories that are a 'bit of both' Les Mis worlds. So please bare that in mind. This particular chapter references a suicide note titled "Some notes for the good of the service" that Javert leaves prior to his jump in the book._ _Again, there is no greater feeling than the moment you see someone has left a review. So please, please... if you have read and enjoyed this and would like more please leave a note. (Grammer whores not needed as this is simply a fun hobby that is a pleasant distraction from the real world) . Thank you! x_

**Broken Man - Chapter 3**  
"You must think me mad"

"Madame, your generosity and charity towards the poor souls within this institution is of course greatly appreciated, but I really must say again that I do believe this is no place for a young lady".  
The young lady in question shook her head as she accompanied the man along the dank, depressing passageway.  
She held a wicker basket before her as she strolled along.  
"With all due respect, that is nonsense Monsieur Loiselet. My good husband made quite the same remark himself but my mind was made up - we must help those in life who are less fortunate, those who have suffered hardship, those who are ill and those who are...".  
"Mad?", Monsieur Loiselet interjected, stopping the lady in her tracks.  
The lady looked down momentarily, biting her lip briefly.  
"Monsieur, I do not claim to have understanding of that which ails these souls, but if I can do something, anything, to make their lives more bearable - even just for a moment - then I will have done some good".  
Monsieur Loiselet nodded, making a warm smile.  
"I understand", he admitted, "it's just that we don't get many people visiting here. Most of these people have been abandoned to their fate and it is rare these days for anyone to care. Sympathy, you could say, is in short supply".  
The lady smiled back, glancing down at her basket before looking at the remaining iron door of the passageway.  
"You said there was one more?", she asked.  
In response Monsieur Loiselet began to walk again, "Yes, one more, the Policeman".  
"Policeman?", the lady asked, following close behind Monsieur Loiselet as he led the way.  
"Yes... It's become a nickname for him really, most of the inmates here were vagrants, beggars, tramps...but yes, this next one was a Policeman... of some standing too I believe".  
"Oh how awful!", the lady frowned as she followed Monsieur Loiselet's lead, "how ever does a Policeman end up in a place such as this?".  
Monsieur Loiselet sighed, "who can say?", he shrugged.  
He stopped as they reached the final door, it's locks bolted shut.  
"Well here he is anyway...", Loiselet gestured with his hand towards the locked door, "all we know is that he was highly regarded, a hard working policeman, and then one day something in his mind must have simply shattered".  
"Terrible", the lady replied as she regarded the imposing door, "but how did he come to be here?".  
Monsieur Loiselet looked down shaking his head.  
"It was a year and a half ago, during the time of the uprising attempt, when those barricades were going up and fighting taking place in the streets", Loiselet explained, "you remember it don't you?".  
"I do Monsieur", the lady spoke as the memory of that night surfaced in her mind, "such terrible waste, all those young lives".  
"Our Policeman was there", Loiselet continued, "I don't know what he did or what he saw, but something happened that night and he made a failed attempt at taking his own life. He was pulled from the Seine in the early hours, so far gone he was initially taken for dead".  
"That's dreadful!", the lady placed a gloved hand over her shocked mouth, "the poor man!".  
"When he was physically well enough he was sent to us from the hospital because he was becoming greatly agitated. The doctors and nurses feared for their safety, and his. You see, once the body is healed there is no more doctors can do".  
Monsieur Loiselet took a set of keys from where they hung on his belt.  
Placing a key in the lock he gave it a hefty turn, the lock responding by releasing with a heavy clink.  
He then reached up and pulled back a large bolt at the top of the door before lowering himself forward to release another one at the bottom of the door.  
He placed a hand firmly on the door and gave it a push. It's hinges gave a fierce metallic squeal as it reluctantly opened.  
"He's there", Loiselet pointed into the dim light of the cell, "by the wall".  
The lady took a single step in, her basket gripped tight in her apprehensive hands.  
"Some days he rambles, some days he fights his chains like an animal, screams, shouts, vows to come after someone from his past", Loiselet signed, "some days he is quiet, and some days he begs for someone, some name he often repeats, to come and kill him".  
"What a poor soul...", the lady whispered.  
Monsieur Loiselet stepped back into the passageway, pulling the door towards closing.  
"If he troubles you just leave, the door will not be locked", he instructed firmly, "if there is any problem, just call out and I will come".  
The lady bowed her head politely in response.  
"Thank you Monsieur".  
With that, the heavy door shut.

There was nothing but silence after the harsh door shut.  
After a period of several anxious moments the lady's vision adjusted to the light of the miserable cell.  
It was daylight but the small barred window high up the wall permitted entry to only a small amount of light.  
It was then, as she cast her eyes down from the forbidden light of the window, that she saw him.  
Unwittingly the lady made a small gasp as her eyes fell upon the chained man sat before her.  
He sat on the cold stone floor, his back against the wall.  
His knees were huddled up against his chest with his arms wrapped around them in an attempt to gain what little warmth was possible.  
His wrist and ankle shackles still held him securely despite his having fought them on a near daily basis.  
His metal collar and neck chain also remained unchanged having succeeded in holding him firmly in place over the past eighteen months.  
Unsure of quite what to do next, the lady stepped forward, approaching him with a few more gentle steps.  
The mans head was bowed, resting face first into his bunched up knees which were exposed to the cold air by holes worn into the poor fabric of his ragged trousers.  
Unsure if the man was sleeping the lady quietly cleared her throat, hoping to gain his attention.  
The man did not respond nor move in any way.  
After several seconds, and feeling quite uncertain of what she should do, the lady cleared her throat again, this time slightly louder.  
Nothing.  
Apprehension grew within the lady and, nervously biting her lip, she stepped even closer to the man.  
Bending down, she placed her basket down gently on the stone floor as she observed him closely.  
The rags he wore were filthy, grimy and damp from the moisture of the stone wall.  
Where he leant forward in his current position the lady could see holes worn into the rags on his back caused by months of the wall rubbing against his back.  
His trousers were equally filthy and covered in blotches and smears of stain that looked as if blood had dripped onto or been wiped against them.  
The lady watched him, hoping to see movement of some sort to prove to herself that he was at least breathing. Unease rose in her and, for a third time, she cleared her throat louder.  
"Madame...", a hoarse voice bristling with irritation finally spoke.  
The lady gasped loudly once more and jumped back, startled.  
"...I would strongly advise you to cease that infernal racket."  
The lady exhaled a quick breath, calming her suddenly excellerated heartbeat.  
"I'm sorry Monsieur, I'm very sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. I thought you might have been unwell", the lady garbled quickly in a fluster, her heart still racing from the shock he had given her.  
Very slowly, the main raised his head to the sound of a chain faintly scraping the wall.  
His eyes were tired as he looked at her and attempted to focus, blinking hard yet slowly in fatigue.  
His long loose hair obscured some of his face and his once proud whiskers had grown to an unkempt beard.  
"What do you want girl?", the man spoke, all emotion missing from his cracked voice.  
With caution, the lady took a small uncertain step closer.  
"Monsieur, I have come here to distribute a few things that may be of use to the inmates here", the lady explained, bending down nearer the man once again.  
"Charity...", the man spat the word and turned his head away from her, ignoring her gaze, "I do not need nor do I desire your...*charity*".  
The lady looked down momentarily at the floor, a little embarrassed and quite unsure as to what to say or do.  
She considered leaving, giving up on this inmate who had brushed off her good intentions, shooing her off as one shoos off an irritating gnat.  
The other inmates had been more than receptive. Scared, loud and excitable as they may have been, the others had all accepted with gratitude the items delivered unto them from her basket.  
She glanced around the entire cell. Looking all around her and acknowledging it's dank, dark reality she took into consideration the many long isolated months during which the man had seen nothing of the world beyond it. She shuddered at the very thought.  
Casting her eyes back to the woeful man she decided that this was the soul she needed to render assistance to more than any.  
"Monsieur...", she began very meekly and paused...waiting.  
He did not react, remaining as he was.  
"Monsieur... I did not mean to cause offence and I sincerely apologise if I have in any way done so", the lady continued, "I just wished to hand out some items, do a little good... Help people."  
She stopped. Waiting for a response, an outburst or a request that she leave.  
Nothing. Stony silence.  
With each passing moment the lady felt herself feeling more uncomfortable with the situation, the awkward silence and one sided conversation leaving her at a loss for anything further to say.  
She observed the man as he sighed in irritation and leant his face back into his bent knees, his rusty neck chain rustling as he moved.  
"Does that hurt?", the lady asked, instantly regretting her childish and inappropriate question.  
The man raised his head again, staring at her with expression blank.  
"What?", he simply asked.  
The lady hoped she wasn't blushing from embarrassment at having asked something so ridiculous.  
"I...I... Just wondered", she stammered and pointed slightly at the chain locked to the man's collar, "that looks terribly uncomfortable...I just wondered if it hurt?".  
She swallowed hard, wanting to run.  
The man looked at her. His eyes were fixed intently on her, looking her up and down in an attempt to establish wether she were friend or foe. No one could be trusted on face value, this much he had known all his life.  
"Does this hurt?", the man repeated the question back at her.  
He raised his hands, gave his collar a tug then held out his shackled wrists towards her, the flesh torn, darkly bruised, and moist with the seeping of blood.  
"You are welcome to trade places", he said with a grim sneer to his tone, his eyes piercing as he watched her recoil, averting her eyes from the sight of his wounds, "and then you would find out".  
Before any could say another word, the man was shaken by his cough.  
He turned away from the lady, facing away from her, coughing hard and uncontrollably, yet trying to maintain a speck of both dignity and strength in the presence of a lady despite his chains rustling with each cough.  
Finally it again subsided, leaving him sat gasping, his pounding head in his hands, fingers pressed into his hair, chest rattling and wheezing with each attempt at breath.  
Before he knew it he felt a warm hand on his shoulder. His body jerked, startled by the sudden sensation of another persons touch, and he looked round sharply.  
"Shush...", the lady was now knelt next to him, her hand gently resting on his shoulder.  
"Monsieur, you're sick", she said, "you must let me help you in some way".  
Breathlessly the man pushed his hair back out of his face, one more long and deep cough following.  
"Leave me be girl, I do not seek pity".  
"Nonsense!", the lady stood and turned to retrieve her basket before returning to his side, standing over him.  
She placed she basket down.  
"Lean forward", she instructed. Her meek, apprehensive tone had vanished, replaced by one of urgency and concern.  
"I told you, I do not want..."  
"I said lean forward", the lady cut him off mid sentence.  
After a long pause, and with caution, the rag clad man complied, leaning slowly forward where he sat, but watching like a wounded predator every move the lady made.  
She reached into her basket and pulled out one of the items.  
"I said I had items to distribute", she continued, "and this one is for you. To keep. It's yours".  
Moving nearer she unfolded the item. It was a blanket. A thick woollen blanket, white in colour and long enough to warm a whole person.  
"Here...", the lady said and leant slightly over the man. With both hands she placed the blanket over his back, being all the time careful to avoid interfering with his collar, then wrapped it gently around his shoulders before finally bringing the rest of the blanket around him to cover his chest.  
"My goodness you're cold!", she remarked, her hand having briefly brushed his shoulder through his torn rags.  
To the lady's surprise, the mans shackled hands reached up and silently took hold of the ends of the blanket, drawing it closed around himself as best he could.  
He looked down, an expression on his face the lady found hard to read.  
"There...", she calmly said, "...that wasn't so bad."  
The silence persisted for some moments as the lady watched the man. He drew the blanket tighter around himself. A sigh, that which sounded like a sigh of much needed relief, finally escaped his lips.  
"Madame...", his voice finally broke the silence, the blanket obscuring his mouth, "...I have been rude. My words toward you have been unacceptable".  
The lady again lowered herself down next to the mans side. Facing him she gave a small reassuring smile.  
"Monsieur, I take no offence", she assured him, "I hope the blanket will at least provide you a little warmth."  
One more harsh cough followed and the man nodded.  
"Madame, I thank you", he said, turning his head to face the lady as she looked upon him, "again I offer my humble apologies. It would seem my manners have become as rusty as my chains".  
The lady shook her head. "No apology is needed, but I am concerned about that cough. It sounds dreadful, and I can hear the wheeze in every breath".  
The man took in a deep breath and blew out a sigh from his lips, his chest grumbling at the action.  
"Good Madame, there is little that can be done", he admitted in a 'matter of factly' tone, resigned to simply stating the fact from the shadows in which he sat.  
"Little?", the lady questioned.  
"Look around you", the man gestured with a finger through his blanket, indicating the dingy room that held him, "this cell is cold, it is damp, moisture trickles down the walls, dampens my clothing, I sit on cold stone, rotting straw and these chains allow little movement. It is a wonder sickness has spared me this long".  
The lady's expression changed, a wave of sorrow washed over her soul, her heart aching at the pitiful scene before her.  
"This is appalling", she said with genuine sadness.  
She raised herself to her feet, the man watching her every move.  
As if in thought the lady paced to the other side of the cell and back, her hand on her chin, thinking.  
She watched the man as he, in turn, watched her. She knew he had tried to hide it, but she saw him shiver under the blanket. It was warming his body but this figure of pity was still being chilled by the freezing cold floor.  
"Why must you sit on the ground?", the lady questioned, "Why can you not have a chair, or a stool? Something at least to sit on?".  
The mans lips turned up very slightly in a smirk upon hearing these words spoken.  
"You do not realise the irony of your words", he muttered with a shake of his head.  
"I do not?", the lady asked, unsure why her words were being seen as such.  
"Forgive me Madame", the man explained, "it is just that I made the very same suggestion regarding the treatment of prisoners, in writing, a great many months ago... Just before... Just... Before... The river... The river... Before it all... So cold... The river...".  
He broke off before he could speak of it any further, his words the trigger for the sudden gloom falling over his features, his mind falling suddenly to a darker depth.  
His eyes grew wide, yet became focused on nothing, biting his lip and shaking his head as an unwanted blackened memory forced itself upon his minds eye - his real eyes blinded to all but the vivid images that bustled and pushed into his mind at an accelerated rate.  
He shuffled where he sat, dread surging through his veins, his body desperately trying to shuffle back, as if desperate to step back from an edge only he could see.  
The lady grew fearful, uncertain at first as to what was happening.  
The mans hands emerged from under the blanket and balled into fists.  
With his knuckles he thumped his forehead repeatedly.  
"I don't want to see... I don't want to see", he begged, "water... so cold... terribly cold... churning... Over and over... Which way is up?... Water... Cannot breathe in... Cannot breathe out... Water... Suffocating... My lungs... My lungs... Engulfed... Flooded... Cannot cry out... No voice... Silence... Silenced by water... No breath... Dying... Drowning... Death...".  
Scared, the lady rushed to kneel at the mans side. Leaning over him she placed her hands firmly on his shoulders and attempted to shake him hard, to rouse him from that which gripped his mind and soul.  
Realising that this was having no affect, the lady held a hand flat and patted him on the cheek repeatedly, then harder.  
"Listen to me!", she pleaded, "there is nothing here! Nothing here will harm you!".  
His eyes screwed tightly shut, trying as he might to stem the tide of vivid memory that flashed back through his mind.  
The lady shuffled back, relinquishing her attempts at rousing the man and decided instead to allow him a respectful distance.  
He was clearly fighting it, his body rocking back against the wall, his ankle chains clinking with the twitching of his legs as he fought.  
Finally he began to ease.  
His desperate movements, sporadic, frustrated and accompanied with a look of fear more commonly seen on a distressed wild animal began to subside.  
After several moments his body fell back against the wall. His shoulders sagged, his head drooped and his breathing slowed, rasping again with each tired breath.  
The lady knelt, her eyes wide at having witnessed the torment the man suffered. In her whole life she had never witnessed anything of the sort and yet she had felt a desperate need to help this man as he suffered before her eyes.  
She moved forward again, slowly, gently.  
"Shhh...", she whispered.  
Reaching out she pulled the blanket back around the man, it having fallen from his shoulders during his episode.  
"Shhh... It's okay...", she placed a hand on his shoulder, gently soothing him through the fabric of the blanket, "You're alright Monsieur ...you're alright".  
Looking around for something useful, anything, she sighted his cup of drinking water.  
Leaning over she picked it up and guided it to his hands that lay limply in his lap.  
With a weak nod he took it, his fingers grasping the cup and the lady gently helping his still trembling hands guide it to his lips.  
He gasped as he drank, the act of drinking seeming to clear the fog from his mind and improve his focus.  
When he was finished, the lady took the cup from him, placing it down within his reach next to where he sat.  
"This is what ails you?", she finally broke the silence, her question this time not asked for the purpose of naive prying, but this time from genuine concern for this man whom she had known less than an hour.  
With a tired movement the man nodded.  
"This is why they chain me... They say this way I cannot... do harm to myself... deliberate or otherwise,", the admittance carried a slight hesitation in his voice as if unsure of wether pride would allow him to speak of such matters.  
He looked her in the face, gauging her reaction and ready to spit a word of venom should his weakness be exploited or mocked.  
The lady said nothing. She looked down, blinked a couple of times and finally wiped her eye, removing the presence of the newly forming tear.  
Her heart was heavy, filled with immense pity, distress and an overwhelming urge to do something to help this man.  
"And would you?", she decided to bravely take the step and ask, "harm yourself I mean?".  
Placing a hand over his mouth the man again coughed, a long and dirty rasp accompanying it.  
"I do not know...", the man reluctantly answered.  
"And these... episodes... you suffer", the lady sympathetically probed, "Monsieur Loiselet told me they happen often?".  
"Did he now?", the man was clearly disgruntled at the revelation that his situation was a subject for discussion.  
"I'm sorry", the lady said, "he only providedme a brief history of each person before I entered the cells."  
Satisfied that his situation was not the subject of idle chatter, the man nodded in confirmation.  
"In fact", the lady remembered, "I never finished what I came to do. I must apologise".  
She turned once more to her basket and took out the final two items from within it.  
The man watched with curiosity, still unsure of what he should make of this new acquaintance.  
For eighteen months he had sat, knelt and occasionally stood here locked up in his prison of chain and filth. In all this time he only ever saw the boy who was tasked with the brief job of delivering his daily ration of drinking water and poor quality bread, and who's duty it was to remove and empty his infernal bucket.  
The once proud man gritted his teeth in distaste at the sheer disgrace.  
"Here...", the lady's soft young voice broke him from his thoughts.  
Before his eyes the lady held out her remaining offerings.  
"It's not much I know", she said apologetically, "but I hope these will be satisfactory".  
Gently the lady passed her simple offerings, an apple and an orange, both fresh, to the man.  
"Madame, why do you do this?", he asked as he took the offered fruit. He was unaccustomed to both the giving and receiving of generosity and thus felt compelled to search for a motive.  
The lady paused before answering, the question arousing a raw sense of grief and loss within the young lady.  
"My father, a kind and gentle man, taut me that we must do all we can to help those around us who are in need", the lady spoke softly as she again bent down next to the man, "he sacrificed greatly to provide the life I now have so I must continue his deeds and, like him, not turn a blind eye to those I can help".  
The man nodded, taking in the information and listening as he placed the orange down on the floor next to him and examined the apple in his hand. It had been many months since had even seen an apple and he was loathe to think of himself as 'in need', yet the hunger within him urged him to devour both apple and orange right then.  
He would save the orange so that, just for once, he would have something to eat later.  
"If he saw a hungry child he would give them a coin", the lady continued to fondly explain, "there was not a single soul Papa would not help".  
"He sounds...", the man searched for an appropriate word, "...honourable".  
He had never understood the willingness of the gutter classes to rely on the charity of others, instead believing that a taint of crime, theft, and robbery stained their souls - giving to these people merely encouraged them to sit back and be idle whilst allowing others to provide for them.  
Despite his thoughts, and his belief on this matter being held life long, the man thought better of challenging the lady's views. It would not be appropriate.  
His observant mind had, despite its fragility, studied his visitor closely.  
Weighing up an individual's integrity, or lack of, was an ability he had come to rely on day in day out in his old life, sometimes having to decide in just seconds.  
In his mind he had judged the lady to be genuine. He was satisfied with her sincerity, sensing no ulterior motive for her actions. Although her intent was kind and her sentiment commendable, he could see clearly that this young lady was childishly naive and held little experience of the true grit of the real world.  
Putting his thoughts aside the man raised the apple to his mouth and took a bite.  
After the months of surviving on mostly bread and the very occasional piece of poor meat, the taste of an apple was refreshing.  
It did not take long for the apple, barely enough to satisfy his hunger, to be eaten.  
Dropping his chained wrists back into his lap the man sat back against the stone wall, his aching back provoking a wince which he rapidly suppressed - he had displayed more than enough weakness already to this visitor.  
The lady watched the man as he moved and noted the fatigue that was becoming apparent on his face. Having seen for herself the mans failing health and the poor conditions in which he was held, then having witnessed him suffer an attack of the so called 'madness' that afflicted him the lady felt certain that the man was now tiring.  
With a gentle movement the lady stood back up to her full height and picked up her basket, all of it's goods having now been handed out.  
"You are tired Monsieur and I have taken up enough of your time", the lady politely began.  
She once more adjusted the blanket around his shoulders, wishing to leave him able to stay as warm as the material would allow given the circumstances.  
"Madame", the man gruffly spoke as he looked up, the cough punctuating his sentence, "I am not accustomed to kind words and generosity... but... my gratitude is yours".  
The lady smiled and nodded softly, accepting the thanks of the once proud man chained before her.  
"I hope these few things provide at least a little comfort", the lady said with sincerity evident, "and I will speak with Monsieur Loiselet with regard to your cough and wheezing chest for I fear that if I do not you may well catch pneumonia".  
With reluctance the man nodded. His feelings regarding his incarceration were constantly muddled, some days believing he had been greatly wronged, that the hunter should not be the one caged. Other days he felt he rightly deserved no less as a penance and punishment for his attempt at the sinful act of suicide. His most profound and worrying realisation was knowing that he was now unable to take any action his master, the law, compelled of him. No matter how many times he wrestled with his moral and legal beliefs, no matter how many times his mind broke down with an overwhelming tide of thoughts during the long dark nights he knew one thing for certain - the redeemed saint of a convict was safely out of his reach.  
Right now he knew that whatever his feelings on his conditions were there would be no stopping the lady from attempting to intervene on his behalf.  
Inwardly he already knew it would be useless as he had no wealth to pay for medicines.  
"You have been most kind", the man said looking up at the lady.  
"It is the very least I can do", the lady smiled politely and began to move to the door with her basket in hand.  
Suddenly she stopped and turned back as if startled.  
"Oh how silly of me Monsieur!", she said with a look of surprise, "but I never introduced myself, nor did I even think to ask your name!".  
The lady looked embarrassed once again, like a child who had made a silly mistake.  
"My name...", the man almost had to suppress a single melancholy chuckle, "...there was a time when the merest mention of my name was enough to strike fear into the hearts of those who prey on society".  
For a moment as he recalled times past he briefly regained a long lost feeling of pride and a little of his old proud posture, his head held high, his aching back straight, began to show.  
Slowly the memory passed, fading back into the recesses of his mind, like the ghost of a time now dead. His shoulders slowly sank back to their somber bearing, reality outweighing memory.  
The lady looked pained upon seeing the pride the memory clearly brought forth in the man, and the darkness as it vanished in a moment.  
"You mean when you were a policeman?", the lady acknowledged.  
"Yes", the man nodded as he looked up at her, "but it is all gone now".  
The lady cast her eyes down. She hadn't known this man long but having spent this short time in his company she felt tremendous empathy for him.  
"I really must return home now or my husband will worry greatly", the lady reluctantly said as she realised the afternoon was waning, "I will make sure to see if there is anything further I can do for you Monsieur...".  
The tired man sat back in his chains, resigned once again to his fate, watching as she slowly began to move away from him towards to the door that shut him off from the world.  
"And my name Monsieur is Madame Pontmercy", she smiled, "...or simply Cosette".  
That moment of hearing her name, that name, "Cosette", was akin to a thousand thunderclaps unexpectedly sounding in his head.  
It was as if a great jolt had struck his body, woken all his senses from a long slumber and surged a wave of fire through his entire being.  
His eyes widened with a start, the pupils focusing sharply on the lady as she stood before him, much as a wolf might lock it's eyes onto cornered prey before commencing the kill.  
"Cosette?", he repeated with a distinctive growl not heard in his voice for almost two years.  
The features of the lady, Cosette, changed rapidly from that of gentle pity to sheer confusion and then slowly to an anxious alarm as she watched the mans appearance transform from that of a wretched prisoner to the wolfish man suddenly scenting blood. If there had been a full moon, she would have thought the man a Werewolf.  
"Cosette?", the mans voice was one of barely disguised disbelief.  
"Yes...", the lady answered with much hesitation upon having seen the mans demeanour alter as it had, "yes that is my name".  
The man shrugged the blanket off and shuffled haphazardly to his scuffed knees, his chains rattling as he moved, then reaching for the stone wall against which he had been sat, with his shackled wrists moving in unison he heaved himself to his unsteady feet, trembling with adrenalin.  
Cosette slowly backed away, worried that the man was suffering another attack of his condition and all the time hoping that it may subside like the last one.  
This had a different feel now he was on his feet, something was extremely wrong and deep down she knew it.  
He was tall, very tall and his figure even now was in his tattered state both imposing and intimidating.  
"I should have smelled a rat the moment you walked in!", the man said as he looked her up and down accusingly in disgust.  
The lady was beginning to worry, concerned that she had inadvertently caused offence in some way that had gone unnoticed to her.  
"Did he send you!? Did he!?", the man raised his voice to a far more commanding tone as if interrogating a suspect, "Are you to report back now? To tell him all that you have witnessed? Will this satisfy him now he can say he has won?!". The man gestured his shackled wrists at Cosette as if forcefully making his point.  
Utterly mystified by this unprovoked outburst Cosette rapidly shook her head.  
"Monsieur I do not know what you are talking about, report to who?".  
"Do not play games with me child! Tell me where he is!", the man ordered, "Now!"  
The mans expression was terrible. Never in her life had Cosette seen anyone so angry and it frightened her to the core.  
"I truly do not know what you mean Monsieur!", she pleaded, hoping in vain for him to regain his senses, slump back down against the wall and become calm again, "tell you where who is?".  
"Cease playing the innocent child!", the monstrous ferocity of the mans voice was ever increasing, "and do not protect him!".  
Forgetting his bonds the man instinctively attempted to take a step forward towards Cosette, to corner her and extract the truth from this wisp of a girl.  
The ankle chain chinked hard as it immediately became taut, stopping him in his tracks before he could move his foot any more than a couple of inches to take the desired step. The man made a roar of frustration as the chains that restrained him once again did thier job.  
"Run home little girl!", he snarled and struggled with his wrist shackles, frustration and rage surging through him, forcing him to again fight to free himself in urgency.  
Once again blood began to seep from the lacerations on his wrists as they were once again disturbed by his enraged struggle.  
"Run home and tell him not to cower behind a girl! Tell him the tables have turned, that he has what he wants! Tell Valjean...", he pulled tremendously hard against the wrist shackles, violently shaking them repeatedly before finally smashing the shackle of his right wrist hard against the the wall with all his strength, "...Tell Valjean that THIS is his victory! THIS is the the life his sanctimonious act of mercy has given me!". He spat the word 'mercy' as if it were contaminated.  
Cosette stood in shock, her mouth dropping slightly open upon hearing the name Valjean. She attempted to compose her shaking self but failed and within moments her eyes began to fill with the water of tears and her bottom lip began to quiver.  
"Bring him here!", the man ordered, "I want him to see that while to some he is a blessing, to others he is a curse! I want him to look me in the eye and regret ever sparing me!".  
Cosette's entire being filled with dread as she listened to the mans uncontrollable raging.  
A sequence of facts were slowly dawning in her mind like pieces of a long scattered jigsaw puzzle slowly coming dreadfully together to form a horrific picture.  
Monsieur Loiselet's description of this man having been a Policeman, that he had been present at the barricades on the night of the uprising, that he knew the name Valjean and finally the mention of this mans life being spared.  
She looked harder in the poor light. Now the man was on his feet she recalled descriptions from her fathers writings. This tall man, his long hair easy to imagine tidy and tied neatly back, his terrifyingly animalistic stare, the fire in his voice...  
A freezing cold chill of terror washed over Cosette as if the temperature in the cell had suddenly plummeted, her face turned pale with shock as she came to her terrifying realisation.  
"Javert...", she breathed in absolute horror.  
"Inspector Javert to the likes of you! Now bring me Valjean...", he struggled for breath momentarily as his sickened chest was overwhelmed by his rage, "...tell him he has won! Tell him it is Javert who now sits behind bars! Or does he not have the courage to look upon a man he has destroyed? Tell Jean Valjean he is a coward!".  
Cosette's body trembled as she suddenly sobbed loudly, breaking down and unable to listen to anymore heartless vitriol from Javert.  
"Jean Valjean is dead!", she cried, a cry so raw it may well have come from the core of her very soul and every fibre of her being.  
Javert stopped as if suddenly struck by a bolt of lightning, disarmed by the words that had just hit him. His wrists were mid pull against his shackles and his gaze set firmly on Cosette.  
The cell was overcome by a silence that was absolute until the girl slowly began to sob again, her eyes awash with the tears which trickled down her face.  
She took a very small step forwards toward Javert, his expression one of suspicious uncertainty.  
"Jean Valjean is dead...", Cosette repeated in a tiny fragile voice, "...My Papa is dead... and you Javert can go to Hell".  
Distraught and shaking with utter grief Cosette turned and strode towards the unlocked cell door.  
She heaved the door open and left, without so much as a glance back at him.  
The door clanged shut and within moments the sound could be heard of a guard bolting the locks.  
Javert stood unmoving, the words of Cosette having struck him a blow which had entirely stunned him.  
His rage evaporated, washed away by the sheer weight of the Earth shattering words and the news they conveyed.  
He believed entirely that the girl was not lying, she had been far too distraught to have invented this.  
"Valjean?...", Javert muttered in shocked disbelief as if refusing to accept such a possibilty, "...dead?".  
He felt his legs weaken beneath him, his sickness having left him too weak to absorb such a dramatic turn of events. He felt shocked to the very pit of his stomach and within a moment Javert fell hard to his knees, unable to stand any longer, his collar choking him hard as it's chain prevented him collapsing forward, but he did not care.  
His heart pounded and thumped in his chest and he fell back hard against the wall.  
This was something Javert had never expected to hear, nor could he comprehend what he was feeling at this loss. It occurred to Javert as he sat on the cold floor, chest heaving hard with every breath, that there was only one person who had been a constant figure throughout most of his life and that person was Jean Valjean.  
"Jean Valjean...is dead...", utter despair permeated his lowered voice as a feeling of something akin to grief began to creep into his soul.  
Weakly he raised his eyes, glancing slowly around his desolate cell and realised that he now felt more alone than ever.  
He let his head drop down and sunk into his black thoughts.  
"Valjean is dead... And so is Javert".

It was half an hour later when the door unexpectedly unbolted, giving it's usual metallic creak as it was forced open.  
Monsieur Loiselet strode in, a purposeful gait to his stride, and stopped a pace infront of his prisoner.  
The former Policeman was still sat in the darkness against the cold wall, tiredness etched onto his face and his expression that of someone who's thoughts were far away. Sporadically he shook his head, as if a chain of thoughts were running over and over through his mind and refusing to be accepted. Again he shook his head, all the while mumbling "No...No...No..." to himself in denial of a fact. His eyes were moist and the line left by one single escaped tear marked itself down his cheek.  
It was apparent that he were in a state that rendered him oblivious to the presence of Monsieur Loiselet.  
Loiselet shook his own head and let out a huff of breath, this was one part of the job he greatly disliked but it was, he always believed, best to get it over with. Once it was done, it was done.  
In his hand he held a sturdy baton, not unalike the truncheon his prisoner sat before him would have once carried in the Police.  
"Javert!", he barked in an almost military tone, flexing his fingers grip on the baton.  
Mentally and emotionally drained, Javert slowly looked up, his gaze numb and groggy.  
Loiselet braced himself and raised his baton.  
"You do not make a lady cry!", he brought it down hard.

End chapter 3


	4. You've Done Your Duty, Nothing More

_Once again I remind people that this story blends aspects of __both__ the book and stage versions of Les Miserables._ _I have opted to go with Valjean's death as depicted in the book where it was a lot more drawn out and gradual rather than simply dying on the wedding night._ _Also, again I visualise this Javert in my mind as being Philip Quast. _  
_As for Cosette, I have been to the London show so many times this year that I currently cannot imagine her as anyone other than the current London Cosette Samantha Dorsey._ _Again please do comment if you enjoy, I really do like to know if I am doing this okay. If I make any spelling or grammar errors please bare in mind that this is a hobby that I enjoy as an escape from real life. I am not a trained writer, it is just a bit of fun and enjoyment (although Javert may disagree)._ _Please enjoy!_

**Broken Man**  
Chapter 4 - "You've done your duty, nothing more".

_"He was stoical, earnest and austere, given to gloomy pondering" - Victor Hugo's Les Miserables book describes Javert._

"Unwise" and "foolhardy", "idiotic" and "irrational". All of these words and a vast many more had passed through her mind this long night as she repeatedly questioned herself, searching for a way to justify and re-justify the journey she was to embark upon in the morning.  
Every time she had attempted to talk herself out of this action, to find an escape route, she felt her conscience gnaw at her, biting at her, urging her to go forward and put away the growing anxiety this very notion stirred within her.  
She was, come morning, about to embark upon the completely inconceivable. The longer she lay here unsleeping, the more anxious her decision made her feel.  
For three days, since fleeing from the asylum in tears Cosette had thought of absolutely nothing but her eventful encounter with Javert.  
The very thought that she had felt sorrow for this man, that she had shown him tenderness, care and given him comfort in his distress had made her feel physically sick. He truly was an animal, chained like the viscous beast he was and deserving of his dire fate as fair retribution for all the years during which he had tormented her poor beloved Papa.  
Her tears had eventually subsided after confiding the days events to her concerned husband.  
Marius had been just as shocked as Cosette upon hearing of Javerts reappearance, comforting his tearful wife as she relayed the tirade the Inspector had let loose upon her.  
That first night Cosette had retired early to bed, weary from the toll the day had taken on her. In search of solace she had taken one of the diaries left to her by her father, by Valjean, and set about taking comfort from reading his words. His written words were always a source of comfort to Cosette and since her Papa's passing she had progressively made her way through the diaries and writings he had left - "The story of those who always loved you" he had referred to it as. No matter what his entries discussed Cosette always felt the love and the warmth that emanated from the words, as though they were a light touching her soul or a warm hand grasping a gentle hold of her own smaller hand.  
She had opened the diary at June 1832 and read, her eyes skipping some of the more distasteful and graphic descriptions of the violence at the barricade.  
It was then that she had read it. A passage describing events that had taken place after that final battle.  
She had always known a little of the events that transpired that night but had never thought to enquire of details or asked to hear in person the tale of that night.  
She had simply always accepted a simple fact, that her Papa had selflessly carried Marius to safety - an act which had resulted in changing her own life forever.  
She had read it again and then again, initially refusing to accept this startling revelation, a fact that Marius himself would never have known as he had not been conscious at the time of it's occurrence.  
Someone else had been there that night, intercepting her Papa as he strained to carry Marius, someone who would have been fully expected to stop her Papa in his tracks with the full force of the law. Cosette had stared at the page in disbelief upon reading that this someone had been Javert and that the Inspector had given ground, yielded to Valjean and allowed him to pass unhindered. It was absolutely unthinkable, on a par with discovering that left was right and up was down.  
Had he acted, arresting her Papa and thus preventing Marius from receiving the urgent care of a doctor, Cosette would have lost both her father and her true love overnight - Marius to a grim death and her Papa back to prison.  
All through this night, these three days after having fled from Javert, she lay warm in Marius' sleeping arms, continuously plagued with thoughts of this revelation and what it now meant.  
During the previous days and nights the thoughts had constantly haunted her, forcing her conscience to justify to herself just how she could lie in a warm bed in a house of finery, while the man who had - however inadvertently - enabled her life to become so fulfilled was left to rot in a cell, whimpering from the broken thoughts that tormented him, and who was almost certain to die alone in his chains upon the failure of his declining health.  
Cosette had been raised to help the weak, to show mercy to those in need. The most important lesson her Papa had taught her was forgiveness and how that one simple act can change a mans life forever.  
However much it scared her, Cosette's mind was made up.  
She knew the story of how long ago a kindly Bishop had shown her Papa forgiveness. Forgiveness was, her Papa had said, a challenge. To forgive one who had wronged you, who had angered you, was far harder and yet more rewarding than harbouring hatred.  
It was her turn to honour both that Bishop and her Papa.  
Come the morning Cosette would return to the asylum, an idea spawned by a newfound feeling of obligation was forming in her mind.  
What happened next would depend on how Javert received her and it would affect them both forever.

The sound of rain lashing down outside infiltrated the cell through the tiny barred window high up the wall. Near total darkness had enveloped the cell through the long sleep deprived night and together with the rain, the cold, and the damp had created a black tomb-like ambiance until the grey day had slowly broken.  
Intermittently the sound of rain was joined by that of a jerking chain, rustling suddenly and then falling silent once more.  
Against the wall, buried in the shadow sat Javert, the light of the grey morning unable to reach him.  
His legs were stretched out before him and his back was leant against the wall.  
His arms were raised against his chest with his fingers tucked underneath his iron collar. Long ago he had worked out that slipping his fingers underneath his collar enabled him to sleep without the collar strangling him on the occasions when sleep caused him to slump to one side or fall forwards.  
Initially he had found it almost impossible to sleep in this upright fashion and had fought both the collar and chain with ever increasing frustration.  
Months later he had reluctantly grown used to it despite the never ceasing ache his back now suffered as a result of having remained inactive in this situation for so long.  
Again a chain rattled, it's wearers body twitching in a sleep that was fitful.  
In the three days since learning of the death of Valjean Javert had scarcely slept.  
Every emotion had coursed through him like the aftershocks of an earthquake.  
As Javert had initially sat in utter numbness attempting to comprehend the news Monsieur Loiselet had entered and delivered his beating as punishment for upsetting the girl, Madame Pontmercy... Cosette.  
For some time after Javert had sat there limp, his body aching, his side to the wall, head drooping and almost hanging by his neck chain.  
The temptation was there... Just let his weight fall, let the chain choke the life out of him and let this world be damned.  
Despite his black thoughts he found himself too preoccupied to even try.  
Perhaps he was a coward who feared a second attempt at suicide, he did not know.  
It was then during that evening just hours after having learned the news that the next attack of his 'madness' came upon him. Partially hanging by the neck he sat slumped low against the wall. Feeling the dried blood from the blow to his head caking the side of his face he felt the familiar sensation of his mind beginning to reel. The dark of night seemed to encourage his 'madness' to emerge from the depths of his mind as if it were a lure, calling for it to creep in under the shadow of blackness.  
It was a single thought that triggered it, followed by a cascade of thoughts, an avalanche, both unstoppable and unrepentant: the realisation that the death of Valjean marked the end of a chapter of his life.  
Valjean had been a constant, the only constant, for a great many years. Now he was dead there was no one at all, nothing to take his place.  
The hunt for Valjean, this game the two of them had played like chess, this game of cat and mouse, was now over, cut short by mortality.  
Yet to Javert the game had been all consuming and it had become personal - very personal. At some point it had stopped being 'the policeman' hunting 'the convict' and had instead become Javert hunting Valjean.  
He was not sure exactly when this transition had occurred, he knew only that this was how their game had evolved, and this was how it was played.  
The possibility of Valjean reappearing was always highly likely and, true to form, he always did reappear. Javert had reluctantly acknowledged to himself that there had always been something of a thrill to the chase.  
To catch sight of ones quarry, to persue, to prepare to pounce, to drag ones prey to the ground after so many years and make the victorious capture was a moment he had long fantasised about. There would have been no personal gain from Valjean's capture, just a feeling of intense satisfaction and the knowledge that order had triumphed.  
And now the game was over.  
The quarry was gone.  
The wolf requires prey to hunt, to live, to thrive, but without prey the wolf becomes little more than a domestic dog wagging it's tail upon seeing its master.  
Perhaps this wolf was now mourning his master?  
Javert had shaken himself from his thoughts at the very notion, refusing to accept that Valjean could have ever been that important to him, that he could harbour even a grain of respect for the guile of his opponent and, most horrifically of all, that Valjean had seemed so incredibly human and humane in their final encounters.  
This humanity had marked Valjean as the better man, the thieving convict better than the righteous policeman.  
Now there was no possibility of another encounter between these two old foes. No more battles, no more chases, no more scenting carefully covered tracks.  
Even locked away Javert had clung to the possibility of another encounter with Valjean. His mind had been plagued with nothing but thoughts of Valjean ever since he had been imprisoned in the asylum, each day weighing up wether it was right that he be locked away so the "man of mercy" could continue to do good without fear of arrest, or wether it was wrong and he should fight to free himself so he could continue the chase and show absolutely no mercy to the prey.  
And now there was nothing.  
The question had been taken away.  
His life was empty.  
A void had opened up and he was hit by the realisation that there was nothing more in his life. There would be no more plans, no more policing, no more reports, no more patrols, not even the luxury of being able to look up in reverence at the stars.  
The rate of his heart was increasing as these thoughts whirled, each darker than the other, and each fuelling his rising feelings of anxiety.  
He was held here against his will, he had no family, no friend, no one was going to come in search of him.  
A feeling of indescribable dread arose within his soul, a cold sweat formed all over him, his heart pounding even faster in a sudden blind panic as he became starkly aware of what his future now held for him...  
He was finished.  
There was no way out.  
He would sit here in these chains locked away for the rest of his life.  
Be it sooner or later, he was going to die here.  
His panic was such that he felt the very walls themselves were closing in. His chest was banging with the pace of his heartbeat, his body trembled, hands shaking, and his breath coming in sharp rapid gasps, his ill health and infected chest conspiring against his ability to take in oxygen.  
His vision blurred, darkening around the edges, his focus failing and his ears ringing.  
After several more frenzied gasps for air Javert slumped, his body collapsing back against the wall and appearing almost lifeless as he fell unconscious.  
In the days that followed this attack Javert barely moved.  
He ate almost nothing and drank very little.  
Even his daily battles with his chains did not occur.  
Instead he sat exactly as he had collapsed, barely having moved a single muscle since, and his mind scarcely able to conjure any thought other than a feeling of all consuming blackness.  
Finally in these morning hours after this third night Javert finally slept, succumbing finally to exhaustion and falling into a fitful yet restless sleep.

The footsteps, taking light and apprehensive steps were that of a frightened young lady.  
The journey to the asylum had felt as though it had been a journey to the very ends of the earth, the temptation to turn back, to call out to the coachman and order him to stop and return her to the safety of her home had become almost overwhelming. Yet she had persevered, determined to summon her courage and walk the path she had decided upon.  
Upon arrival Monsieur Loiselet had expressed great surprise, explaining that he had never expected to see her again after she had departed so abruptly and in such a state the last time.  
Cosette had offered little in the way of an explanation as to her motivation for returning, opting instead to state that she had unfinished business with 'The Policeman'.  
As with the previous visit Monsieur Loiselet led Cosette, her basket again in hand, down the dark passageway that led to the cell in question, unbolting the locks upon arriving and pushing the door open.  
"I don't know what was said during your last visit", Monsieur Loiselet looked to Cosette and then gestured into the cell, "but he has sat as unmoving as a corpse since you left".  
Cosette's heart jumped a whole beat upon hearing these words, having half expected to see Javert continuing to rage like a caged lion.  
Once again she took a tentative few steps into the cell, looking back anxiously at Monsieur Loiselet for the briefest of moments as if making a last minute consideration as to wether to back out.  
She persevered.  
"Again, the door will not be locked, leave any time you like", Monsieur Loiselet quietly stated before he left with a polite nod, shutting the cell door behind her.  
Once again Cosette's eyes took several moments to adjust to the darkness, the vast majority of the days light being denied entry by the single barred window.  
Once adjusted to the dim light Cosette sighted him, apprehension leaping within her as she recognised the ragged form of Javert slumped against the wall, the neck chain hanging slack from the wall above him as if tethering a lifeless dog.  
She strained her eyes to see, taking several very slow cautious steps forward as if she were walking on thin ice that might shatter at any moment.  
He really was just as Monsieur Loiselet had described, crumpled against the wall, collapsed as if the fire she last saw raging within him had been extinguished.  
Cosette stepped closer still until she was standing before him, noting that next to him sat his ration of water, undrunk and his ration of bread untouched.  
His head was bowed, drooping forward with his long hair hanging loose obscuring his face and his fingers tucked again under his collar to aid breathing - He was sleeping.  
Cosette quietly bent down next to him becoming increasingly aware of the fact that she was trembling in barely contained terror at returning to this man.  
With immense hesitation she slowly reached out a hand and with the lightest possible of touches slowly drew his loose hair back to reveal his sleeping face, half expecting him to wake with a start and lash out wildly.  
Cosette gasped audibly as she saw Javert's face. The right side of his face was blackened with bruising, his eye was swollen shut and a cut sat just above his eyebrow caked in dried flaking blood.  
Placing her basket down she gently let his hair fall back, unsure of what she should do. She had not expected to see this.  
Her answer came when the man before her stirred. A chained hand twitched and he took in a rough breath which was immediately followed by a thick cough.  
He was waking slowly.  
"Monsieur...?", Cosette spoke softly before she had even realised that it was her own voice, "...Inspector?".  
Cosette's heart thumped and she took a nervous step back as Javert lethargically began to look up. She knew he was becoming aware of the presence of a second person - the moment she had dreaded suddenly arriving.  
Slowly he removed his numb fingers from under his collar, pushing his hair from his face to aid his view, his chained hands dropping weakly to his lap immediately after.  
His swollen eye refused to open, the black bruising too harsh to grant it sight. His good eye blinked slowly several times, the girl before him finally transforming from a blur and coming into focus.  
Both stared at the other, Cosette in abject terror and Javert in a combination of both tired confusion and exhausted disbelief at what he saw before him.  
"Inspector, I..."  
"Madame, why..."  
Both began at once.  
Silence again...  
"Monsieur... Inspector...", Cosette began with apprehension clear in her voice, "...the way things were left the other day... I felt I should come back... It's been bothering me... I didn't want to leave things as they were...".  
Javert observed her as best he could with his limited sight, recognising the terror clearly displayed on her face before sighing and glancing down, another deep cough rattling his chest.  
Once more he looked up at her, his face a picture of exhaustion, defeat, sickness.  
"If I may reassure you Madame...", his downcast voice began in a tone lacking any strength, "...this time I do not intend to bite".  
Cosette's features softened slightly, her apprehension easing a little upon hearing that the flare-up of outrage she had expected from Javert might after all not occur.  
Another bout of silence followed, as chilled as the cold cell itself.  
After a some hesitation Cosette stepped forward once again, bending down cautiously next to Javert, relieved and yet still feeling anything but safe in the presence of this volatile man.  
"Monsieur... I mean, Inspector...", she gestured meekly to his face, "...What happened? Your face...Did they do this to you?".  
Javert nodded where he sat, his sapped strength making the nod slow as both his neck and back ached tremendously with every movement. Weakly he leant his head back against the stone and exhaled.  
"I was punished for distressing you so greatly", he admitted, his good eye staring straight ahead as he stated the fact dispassionately.  
Cosette looked horrified. The thought of an act of violence being carried out in her name and without her knowledge or consent was abhorrent to her.  
"Monsieur... Inspector, I can assure you...", she fretted with a jitter to her voice, "...that I made no such request of Monsieur Loiselet, I would never ask such a thing!".  
"You would not understand Madame...", Javert shook his head and spoke slowly, "...it is his job to maintain order. I have disciplined enough prisoners in my time to know. This is merely the way of things".  
Again his back pulsed with his movement, the many months of being restricted by the short neck chain to remaining sat against this wall, sitting in this position, sleeping in this position, had caused an ever increasing agony throughout his entire back and neck.  
Cosette looked downcast as she listened, a pang of guilt within her at the knowledge that her manner of leaving on the previous occasion had led to this beating.  
"I'm so sorry Monsieur...", she said quietly and looked down, saddened at both Javert's punishment and his casual acceptance of it as if he had received a mere slap on the wrist for a misdemeanour, "I had no idea".  
Forcing the pain to the back of his thoughts, Javert looked at this naive girl, his groggy mind beginning to ponder a great many questions at her unexpected reappearance.  
Once again he raised his chained hands. His collar was particularly uncomfortable this morning and he winced in irritation.  
Upon Javert's arrival at the asylum, the iron collar been shut around his neck and secured at the back with a padlock.  
This padlock was itself attached to the end of the hated chain that prevented him from straying far from the cold stone wall.  
When sat leaning against the wall the padlock was of great irritation to Javert, constantly in the way at the back of his neck, jabbing at him, and preventing him from trying to relax the constantly aching muscles of his neck and back.  
He had come to realise that as the collar was not chokingly tight he could turn it slightly, bringing the padlock and chain to one side so as to allow him to appease the ever increasing pain of his back.  
Today, as regularly occurred, the padlock had slipped to the back again.  
His hands trembled as he reached for it, lack of nourishment having made even the smallest of movements a challenge. He fumbled to feel for the padlock, his wrists being shackled together always making the task more complicated than it should be.  
"May I?".  
Javert looked up to see Cosette, her eyes glancing toward the padlock he sought, lean towards him from where she were bent down next to him. Clearly she had understood what he sought to resolve.  
Javert gave a slow yet cautious nod, the very concept of accepting help, particularly in his vulnerable predicament, was still something he found almost too alien to comprehend.  
Cosette leant towards him. Gently she brushed his hair back behind his ear, his good eye watching her the whole time, his body ready to draw back from her.  
With light fingers she touched the collar, lifting it slightly from the base of his neck so as to not scrape his skin with its rough metal and then turned it, gently bringing both the padlock and the rustling chain to rest at his right shoulder.  
Javert sat back, free of the loathsome irritation. He closed his good eye, pursing his lips in sheer ignominy at having needed and accepted the help of a mere girl, not just any girl but that girl, to help him with such a simple task.  
Cosette sat back, saying nothing and simply observing him, sensing the once proud mans irritation at requiring assistance.  
Javert finally looked to her once again, his tired face searching for answers and reasons.  
"Why does the daughter of Valjean do this?", he finally asked after having taken several moments to choose his words, taking care not to unintentionally offend.  
Cosette gave a reluctant smile as she considered the question, all the while looking at Javert, observing the stare of his piercing cold eye and noting how he appeared far weaker today than during her previous visit.  
"If it is honesty you seek Inspector, I have tried at least a hundred times to talk myself out of coming back", she began with earnest sincerity, "My Papa lived every single day looking over his shoulder, watching for you, ready to take hold of me and run, to start another new life and abandon what little we had at a moments notice...".  
Sat weakly against the wall all the while attempting to conceal the acute pain searing his spine, Javert listened, watching the girl as she spoke.  
"I didn't understand why at the time, nor did I so much as know your name until I was older, but I always knew that someone was seeking to harm my Papa. And that was why we always had to hide. Inspector, I will admit this, you frighten me, you frighten me a lot".  
Cosette looked away, dreading that his reaction might be explosive and worrying that her words had been too honest, too cutting given the combination of their most recent encounter and Javert's fragile mental state.  
To her surprise, yet again no outburst followed and she looked back, as if expecting a delayed reaction.  
He was unmoved, sat exactly as he had been, leant against the wall, head leaning back against the stone, chained hands resting in his lap and with no sign of any building rage about to erupt.  
"Do not fear me Madame", he finally spoke, his voice downbeat yet reassuring, "I have never intended harm towards you, be it then or now".  
Cosette's attention focused firmly on Javert, her nerves reluctant to calm themselves upon hearing him speak these words.  
This return visit had so far gone nothing like she had feared. She had not expected, with him knowing her identity, to be able to engage in conversation with Javert.  
"And my Papa?".  
Javert thought, a vast array of memories of the past stirring in his mind at Cosette's inevitable mention of her adopted convict father, "I never sought to harm Valjean... Your father". There was honesty in his face as he spoke.  
"But you would have returned him to prison?", Cosette asked seeking understanding of both Javert's motivations and beliefs, "for the rest of his life?".  
"Yes", Javert's answer was blunt but truthful, "but harm him? No Madame. No prisoner in my custody was ever, ever, mistreated - not even those who's crimes far exceeded those of Valjean".  
Cosette listened intently, never having expected to glean any insight into Javert.  
"But you let him go?", she continued, finally nearing the point she had come here to make and hoping desperately that he would continue to respond, "after the barricade fell?".  
As the question was asked there was a reluctance within Javert to form an answer, the memory being so close to the events which had triggered his undoing and ruination.  
He said nothing for several long moments as he recalled that very event, an event which had occurred within the first hours of his thoughts and mind descending into darkness and shattering into the shards of chaos and confusion he was now left with.  
"I did", he simply answered, "for reasons I struggle every day to comprehend".  
Cosette was silent, undecided as to wether it would be appropriate to thank Javert for releasing her father or wether, being in full knowledge that this event had led directly to his attempt at taking his own life, to leave the words unspoken for now.  
The silence was broken abruptly by Javert's sickly cough, his chains rattling as it continued unabated as he fought to draw breath and contain the onslaught.  
His chest grumbled yet again, his cough finally retreating. His chained hands attempted to rub his chest to calm his gasping breathing as his aching back again surged with pain from the disturbance.  
Cosette placed a hand gently on Javert's sagging shoulder as he looked down in weariness, concern clearly evident on her face, "You need a Doctor, urgently".  
Javert swallowed hard, refusing the indignity of spitting in front of a lady the nauseating muck his illness was dredging up from his chest with every attack of coughing.  
"No...", he dispiritedly shook his head, "...besides, I have no funds to pay for one".  
Cosette said nothing, she had no idea what to say. Instead she simply looked at Javert in an attempt to understand this man and how he both thought and functioned. His entire physical bearing, his tone of voice, everything was different this time. It was, she sorrowfully acknowledged, as if he had simply lost the will to live.  
"You never answered my question...".  
His hoarse voice immediately brought her attention back to him as he looked questioningly to her.  
"I asked why the daughter of Valjean does this? Comes back here after I caused you such distress... now you are aware of who I am?".  
Cosette glanced at the shining ring placed on her finger and then back to Javert as she prepared to answer, to tell him a truth he almost certainly knew nothing of.  
"When you last encountered Papa, he was carrying an injured young man was he not?".  
Javert nodded in confirmation, "a half dead revolutionary".  
Cosette bit her lip nervously, deciding how best to proceed, then extended her hand towards Javert all the while indicating the wedding ring on her finger and breaking into a cautious smile as she looked him proudly in the face.  
"It is thanks to you Inspector that the half dead revolutionary survived", Cosette's smile broadened, "he is now my husband and I love him so very much".  
Javert watched Cosette's face illuminate with joy as she spoke, her deep love for her husband lighting up her face like that of an excited child.  
Love was something Javert himself had neither comprehension of nor did he seek, viewing it only as a distasteful human facet and a distraction from his work. For his entire life he had lived only with that which he deemed necessary to sustain him - food, lodgings, adequate clothing and eventually his purpose - the police. Love was practically a dirty word and sex an absolutely impermissible thought.  
Cosette smiled warmly at Javert, taking back her hand from before his good eye and looking proudly at the ring as if it held more value than the world itself.  
"It truly is all down to you Inspector", the gratitude was clear in her voice, "your actions that night, in letting Papa pass, you saved the life of my husband. Every moment of happiness my husband and I share, we owe it all not just to Papa but to you too!".  
These most unexpected of words had visibly taken Javert by surprise.  
Upon waking to find Cosette had returned to his cell he had steeled what little resolve remained within him and waited, accepting of the knowledge that he had spoken out of turn when last they met, and fully expecting this girl to embark upon a heartfelt defence of Valjean.  
This was not the conversation he had expected. The very notion of witnessing the daughter of Valjean expressing heartfelt thanks before him had momentarily given him cause to wonder wether his madness had deepened and he were hallucinating.  
"I must confess...", he finally summoned words to form a reply, "...the events of that night are somewhat... blurred to me... I must admit I never gave the injured revolutionary another thought".  
"It doesn't matter", the emphasis in Cosette's voice was clear as she placed her hand warmly on Javert's arm, "he survived, we are happy and you played a vital part in that".  
Javert watched the smiling girl, an immense ache once again creeping up his spine, his back and neck once again protesting his prolonged confinement against the wall.  
"I wish you and your husband well, I truly do", he began with sincerity, "but you owe me no thanks. Your union is simply a consequence, a side effect, of my actions".  
Cosette abruptly stood, pondering Javert and looking him over.  
She had come here with the intent of making a decision. A decision that would greatly affect both her and Javert's futures.  
Her decision was not yet made, but she knew she was nearing a decisive moment when her choice would be made for her.  
Javert's rags, just as damp, cold and dirty as last time hung from his body. His wrists and ankles still bore scars, lacerations and traces of dried blood from the wounds received as a consequence of battling his shackles. His bare feet were still dirty and he had clearly not been permitted to move more than a few paces from the spot his neck chain restricted him to.  
Looking around the cell she caught site of his blanket, the one she had given him during her last visit, and picked it up.  
"I did not feel deserving of that after the last time", Javert spoke up in admission as he watched her, a hint of shame to his voice.  
"Nonsense Monsieur", Cosette shook her head, her thoughts still whirring in her head as she pondered whether to say what she was planning.  
She approached Javert again, opening the blanket up and shaking it out.  
"Lean forward again", she indicated as she held out the blanket for this second time, "please Monsieur?".  
Sensing no other choice Javert did as requested, a sharp gasp escaping under his breath as pain once again lashed his back as he moved, his spine feeling as if it might shatter.  
It was clear that Cosette had noticed this time, her eyes darting to his face in concern as he gasped before she once again wrapped the blanket around him, relinquishing the ends of it to the grasp of his hands for him to pull it tight around him.  
"It doesn't matter to me how inadvertent your actions were Monsieur", she gently saw to arranging the blanket until she was satisfied with the warmth it provided, "the fact is that it happened".  
When satisfied that he was amply wrapped in the blanket, Cosette stopped, looking Javert straight in his good eye.  
"Inspector...", she began, her sense of obligation towards him at the forefront of her mind, "it is clear that I owe you a great debt. A debt myself and my husband must repay".  
"Javert...", he said with barely more than a whisper to his voice, "...there is no more 'Inspector'. The Inspector drowned long ago, washed away by the waters of the Seine. Madame, you have displayed exceptional kindness given who I am, what I was to your father... Please, address me simply as Javert".  
Cosette's face formed a genuine smile in response, the remaining tension her body felt at being in this mans presence dissipated and she relaxed feeling that a connection had finally formed between them.  
"If it pleases you...", she hesitated upon the removal of formalities, "...Javert".  
He nodded in expression of his thanks, aware that he had never before invited anybody to address him informally by name. Even now he felt it comparable to a lowering of his guard and yet it somehow felt appropriate.  
"Then you must call me Cosette!", the girl said with a chirp to her voice, "I absolutely insist upon it".  
Javert again nodded, accepting the request as one might accept the terms of an agreement.  
"Then please know Cosette", he began, "that neither you nor your husband owe me a debt of any kind".  
Cosette stood, shaking her head in disagreement, "that is where you are quite mistaken. I have come to realise that I must do whatever I can to help you. I simply cannot let you sit here like this".  
Javert watched her, his neck aching as he looked up, his mind doubting that there was anything this wisp of a girl could realistically do to aid his dire situation.  
"Javert I came here today expecting to find a monster, this terrifying policeman my father feared", she paused looking down at the broken man before her.  
"And what did you find?", Javert asked, curious to know how this daughter of Valjean, who was naive and simple but most certainly not stupid, had perceived him.  
"I didn't find a monster, I found a man. A man who has been damaged, both mentally and physically", sadness penetrated her voice as she looked at him, "I found a man who needs someone to help him and most of all, I found a man who needs a friend, possibly more than anyone has ever needed a friend".  
Javert was silenced. It was rare for anyone to speak words to Javert which rendered him speechless.  
The girl was certainly perceptive. Indeed he was damaged and he was broken, but she was also correct in assessing that he was also utterly unable to help himself in any way.  
He had nothing and no one.  
"I...", he waited while trying to formulate a response, "...do not know how to respond".  
Cosette again lowered herself next to Javert, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder, taking in the features of his face and trying to imagine him as he was, proud and tall as her fathers writings described.  
"I may not understand what ails you", she said feeling the need to explain herself, "but I cannot with good conscience sleep soundly at night knowing that the man I owe so much to sits here, in these conditions, when I should be doing something to help."  
Javert listened, observing Cosette as she spoke and finding himself unsure as to exactly what he should be feeling.  
This was not charity from a do-gooder, nor was this condescending goodwill or patronising sentiment of the sort that would always have greatly irritated him.  
This was someone who, it appeared, harboured a genuine concern for him. This was both new and unknown.  
"You truly do not owe me anything", Javert repeated, "I would be greatly shamed to become a burden to you".  
Cosette's fingers soothingly rubbed his shoulder through the fabric of his blanket.  
This human touch of friendship made his shoulders tense defensively, the sensation being resolutely foreign to him.  
"Relax", Cosette quietly spoke as she watched him take in her words and actions, "there is no burden".  
Javert looked down, several deep coughs again rattling his chest.  
"You do not understand. I fight this ailment, this torrent of madness, every night", he sighed, "and with the greatest of respect, I doubt there is anything you can do to fix it".  
Cosette sat back, a sad expression on her face and gave a shrug, "then what is to be lost by trying?".  
Javert had no answer.  
"Let me put it another way", she continued, "if Inspector Javert arrived at the scene of a crime and found the culprit had fled, would he simply give up? Would he not try and resolve it?".  
Javert watched Cosette, admitting to himself that despite her docile appearance this girl was sharp, as sharp as the man who had raised her.  
"He would persevere...", Javert admitted.  
Cosette again smiled, "good!".  
Javert opened his mouth to speak then paused, as if wanting to broach a subject but thinking better of it.  
He thought, considering the one issue that overshadowed everything that had been said. He was not a man of words, nor was he a man of tact but there was a delicate subject both had steered clear of, avoiding as if it were made of gunpowder and might ignite if touched upon.  
"Madame...Cosette...", Javert corrected himself, "before we discuss anything further there is something I must ask".  
Cosette saw his features become solemn, "go on...", she prompted.  
Javert fought to find appropriate words, desperately hoping not to distress or offend.  
"I do not wish to cause you upset but I really must know, it is of great importance to me...", Javert paused before deciding to come straight out with it, "Jean Valjean, is he really dead? This is not a trick or a ploy?".  
Cosette looked down, closed her eyes and sighed, the memory still hurting.  
After a moment she looked up, noting how desperately Javert appeared to be awaiting an answer  
She nodded.  
"Jean Valjean is dead. He passed away several months ago... Papa is with God now".  
A breath Javert had unknowingly held whilst awaiting the answer escaped him, as if he had just received a great blow. He allowed his face to drop into his hands, enabling his expression of shock to be concealed.  
The chase was truly over.  
He took several deep yet steady breaths, as deep as his chest would allow, trying to calm the cold rush that had washed over him upon confirmation of the news. He had no choice but to calm himself, he were too weak and exhausted to stand another attack of his 'madness',  
"I am sorry", he finally looked up, locking eyes with Cosette and hoping desperately that he hadn't hurt her with his question.  
"I am not offended", she reassured him, "it is right that you know".  
"I do not understand", Javert looked to her eyes in search of answers, "Valjean was as strong as an ox".  
There was a long pause, the subject being of a sensitive nature that both found hard to comfortably discuss.  
Javert prepared to speak again.  
"If I may be permitted to ask... How did he die?".  
Cosette wiped a small tear from her gradually moistening eyes, biting her lip as she prepared to tell of the events that bore her great pain.  
"If it is too much", Javert interjected upon seeing the visible grief rise within Cosette, "then please do not sadden yourself on my account. I know all I need to know".  
Cosette shook her head in determination.  
"No, I will tell", she took in a deep calming breath, "Papa became ill, so very ill. And we were so stupid. After Marius and I were married Papa kept his distance, staying away from us in the belief that he were no longer needed, that I was no longer his".  
Javert listened in respectful silence.  
"Oh Javert he was needed! I needed him! Just as I need him now! It is unbearable to think of him sitting alone, dying a little inside with every passing day when his rightful place was really in our home. He should have dined at our dinner table, enjoyed the flowers and sun in our garden, enjoyed walks with us in the afternoon!"  
Cosette's lip quivered visibly and she clearly began to cry quietly as she remembered, looking down as if attempting to hide her tears.  
"Instead Papa withdrew from us. He was terribly ill and yet he never told us. He should have sent for me, for us, there is nothing we wouldn't have done to help him. We only saw him in his final hour. Cold, he was so cold...", she paused for a moment as she cried, "I just don't understand why, why did he stay away, why did he not ask for help?".  
Javert watched from where he sat, taking in every detail whilst being unsure himself of what words we're required in this situation. He had in his profession seen people grief stricken on many occasion, but it had always been impersonal. Usually his experience extended as far as speaking to those left behind after a murder and assuring them of swift and decisive justice, it had never involved a personal connection.  
"Perhaps...", Javert's voice quietly pushed in through the sobbing, "...perhaps he did not wish help?".  
Cosette looked up, fixing Javert with a confused stare and brushing aside tears with her fingers.  
"How do you mean?", she asked.  
Javert took a breath to steady the rattle in his chest, "I know Valjean... I knew Valjean...", he corrected.  
He waited several moments, allowing a thick cough to pass before continuing.  
"Valjean's life on the run, his various identities, his hiding... It was all part of his mission, his vow to the prosti...", he stopped himself before he misspoke, "...it was all part of his vow to Fantine, your Mother, to raise you. Once the vow was fulfilled his mission was complete".  
Cosette wept away quietly as she listened attentively to Javert's words.  
"But why? Why couldn't Papa come and live out his days with us?", she wept, "was it me? Did I do something wrong?".  
"No, it wasn't you...", Javert shook his head in answer to her question, raising his shackled wrists from his lap and indicating with a hand for her to stop and listen.  
"Although it fills me with a disturbing irony", Javert began, "I believe I fathom his reasons".  
"How can you, when you were here?", Cosette asked, struggling to comprehend Javert's words.  
Javert thought, trying to arrange his words as tactfully as he was able.  
"It would seem that in a short space of time Valjean's life changed, changed beyond all recognition", he began, "the world he knew for years suddenly ceased. He was not a young man. If he withdrew, keeping his ill health a secret, then he could die causing you no grief. He would simply disappear and hope you would move on".  
"But that is not fair", Cosette protested again wiping a tear as it ran down her face.  
"I am afraid Cosette", he again began looking to this girl next to him, "that despite the fairy tales, fairness has little or no bearing on life".  
To emphasise his point he raised his wrist shackles in Cosette's direction and gave a slight tug of the short chain that constantly held his wrists so close together.  
"The policeman in chains", he grunted, "hardly life being fair, do you see?".  
Reluctantly Cosette nodded, a harsh lesson in the realities of life having made itself known to her courtesy of Javert.  
"The irony that troubles me is that it appears we both sought the same exit. We both abruptly lost the worlds we knew, everything changed so fast...", Javert paused, a frown forming upon his face and his eyes staring into a fog of nothingness as he followed a train of thought, "Valjean withdrew to await the inevitable... I withdrew to the Pont au Change bridge to provoke the inevitable. We both sought the same thing, a way out".  
"Stop it Javert!", Cosette snapped with an edge of pleading within her voice, "...please, just stop".  
Javert shook himself back from his mental digression, focussing once again on Cosette.  
The details of Valjean's passing had come as a tremendous surprise to him. As Valjean had been a man of such tremendous strength Javert had expected to learn that Valjean's death had resulted from an accident rather than illness. Even in Toulon prisoner 24601 was rarely ill. Learning that he had simply gone off to die having lost the will to live was shocking, and yet at the same time, it also seemed somewhat in character for the sentimental old convict.  
"My apologies...", he hung his head, berating himself for thinking such words out loud, "...I forget myself. My thoughts, my thoughts often drift to a darker nature... I am sorry".  
Javert remained unmoved, a sigh escaping him as he looked down, avoiding Cosette's gaze.  
"I must fight harder to retain control in your presence", he said in a voice barely more than a mutter.  
Cosette took a handkerchief from her basket and dried her tears, noting how tired Javert now looked.  
Javert did not look up.  
Once again looking around next to him, Cosette picked up the untouched ration of bread which sat near him.  
Gently she tore a piece of bread off, holding it out to him as if it were a gesture of peace.  
Slowly he looked around to her, another wince at the pain which wracked his back.  
"You haven't eaten in days?".  
Javert shook his head slowly in answer.  
"Eat", Cosette urged.  
"There is little point...", Javert again faded to a lifeless whisper.  
Moments later he was again wracked by his cough, almost choking as he attempted to breathe such was the strength of the cough.  
He leaned forward, gasping greatly as he fought for breath, the sound of his chest sickly and the neck chain pulling taut against his collar as he leant.  
Finally he fell back, his energy again sapped, the attack passing and returning to him his breath.  
"You must let me fetch you a Doctor then at least!", Cosette again urged.  
Weakly Javert shook his head in a slow response.  
As she looked on, seeing him indicate this negative answer Cosette felt frustration built within her.  
"Why!?", she finally demanded, "Why do you not eat and why will you not consent to a Doctor?".  
Javert again took several moments to allow himself to breathe. He was exhausted, his lack of nourishment taking it's toll and his back constantly in a state of pain.  
"Food...", he breathed, "...will sustain me".  
"Yes", Cosette nodded.  
"A Doctor...", again a breath, "...may remedy me".  
"Yes", Cosette repeated, "that is the whole point!".  
"You do not understand", Javert looked to Cosette, his swollen, blackened eye still refusing to open.  
His thoughts swung back to those of the huge attack of anxiety his 'madness' had struck him with several nights previous.  
"If I eat, and if a Doctor returns me to health, then this Hell continues", his good eye fixed Cosette with a terrible expression of both pleading and terror.  
Unexpectedly he moved his shackled wrists, taking Cosette's hands into his own, a move so unprecedented it surprised even him, and held them tight as he looked directly at her, his good eye piercingly sharp.  
"Cosette, please understand... I cannot do this anymore! You cannot imagine what this is like! I cannot move from this spot! I am locked away here every hour of every day! I do not even know how long I have been here!", it was building again, stirring, he could feel it.  
"Eighteen months...", Cosette quietly answered, "...a year and a half".  
He was already trembling and now he trembled more upon hearing this, Cosette felt the shaking clearly through his desperate hands.  
"Cosette believe me...", he urged, "I was once a proud man. This disgrace, this humiliation, this shames me. I cannot sit here chained like this for the next ten, twenty years".  
"What are you saying?", an anxious look dawned on Cosette's face as she listened to his pleading words, a feeling of a foreboding intent lurking within his voice.  
"Valjean bore his chains for nineteen years, but even he had a fair trial... Even he had a definite sentence... And even he had hope of release", Javert breathed, letting go of Cosette's hands and jerking the wrist shackle in frustration.  
Cosette listened.  
As she watched him struggle a pain was building within her, recognising again the deep frustration that crushed his soul daily.  
"Let this damned illness take me!", Javert abandoned his struggle, weakly hanging his head and a long breath again rattling his chest, "my body feels like that of a man twice my age, perhaps one day I shall fall asleep here and be spared the indignity of ever waking again..."  
Cosette sat open mouthed, her mind falling back to thoughts of her Papa sitting alone as he waited for the end.  
"Javert, I refuse to accept what I am hearing", a firmness she was not used to displaying was clear within her voice, "you are doing just what Papa did only this time, this time I am not going to let it happen!".  
She stood, huffed out a large breath of annoyance and frustration and let out a sound like that of a suppressed pretend scream deep within her throat, looking to Javert as one might look to a disobedient child who were refusing do as told.  
"Honestly, Javert! You and Papa!", she berated throwing her arms up in the air in exclamation, "The sheer bullheaded stubbornness! I could bang your heads together!".  
He tried to suppress it, it was hardly appropriate to the conversation but for a moment it actually pulled him from his fatalistic thoughts, allowing him a moments precious reprieve... Just for a moment, upon hearing Cosette's frustrated outburst, he smirked in the briefest of amusement.  
"I saw that", she said, placing her hands on her hips, looking down at Javert.  
"Forgive me...", he looked to her, "... But know I speak the truth when I say I find this situation increasingly intolerable with every passing day".  
"That's it", Cosette simply stated, "That is absolutely it!".  
Her mind was made up, her decision made. There would be no going back now.  
Softening, she looked to him tenderly, observing his blanket wrapped around him, his face bruised and his spirit broken.  
"Javert, I spoke the truth before. I am going to help you, I am going to change this, and I am going to do everything in my power to help you get better", she announced with certainty ringing in her voice, "and if you get better, you can get out of here!".  
The very thought, the tiniest chance that he could conquer his 'madness' and one day be freed seemed almost beyond comprehension, as if it were a far off glimmer of hope that were almost beyond reach.  
"What do you say Javert?", Cosette asked, "will you accept my offer of help? If you decline then you know you will die here alone, in the cold and dark".  
She waited, watching as he clearly gave consideration to the vast and serious implications of her words.  
"Or you could find the courage to accept the help offered by this mere girl who, wether you believe it or not, has come to care about what becomes of you".  
Cosette waited, closing her eyes for several moments as she awaited the answer of this man to whom the very concept of asking for help, or being perceived as week was deeply discomforting. Slowly, she walked to the other side of the cell, taking a moment to look up and observe the tiny window that let in such a meagre amount of light, before striding slowly back.  
"I...", Javert hesitated, finding these words almost impossible to speak, "...I am not a weak man, do you understand?... I do not depend on others".  
Cosette kept back, remaining silent, giving him respectful space and ample time to arrange his words.  
"But...", he again paused, "...I reluctantly accept that I do require an ally".  
"No Javert", Cosette corrected, "you need a friend, even if it is the first friend you have ever had. I will be both your friend and your ally if you will accept my help".  
With that Cosette lowered herself before him and held out her hand as if concluding a business deal.  
One more pause and he spoke again.  
"It is agreed", Javert nodded raising a chained hand and cautiously taking Cosette's own in a weak handshake.  
"Good!", Cosette beamed a great smile of relief.  
Turning to one side she again picked up the bread, breaking another piece off, "Now eat, please", she urged as she handed it over.  
With a nod of acceptance upon having made a solemn agreement Javert took it and complied with her request, the bread being the first thing he had eaten in almost three days.  
"And while you eat", Cosette continued, "I want you to tell me what I can do for you right now. What is the one thing, no matter what it is, that would make life just a little more bearable? I need to start somewhere Javert".  
The bread was poor quality, it always was, but to Javert's famished body it was a pure indulgence.  
He listened as he ate, considering Cosette's question.  
"There is one thing", he admitted, still discomforted at discussing weakness, "I cannot find words to adequately describe the pain I endure each day in my back and neck".  
Cosette listened, aware already that he was suffering in some way after having witnessed him wince sharply on more than one occasion.  
"This damned chain", he gestured upwards to his neck chain, "this accursed monstrosity prevents me from lying down. When I sleep I must find a position sitting up that allows me rest. I have not been permitted to lie down for... How long?".  
"A year and a half", Cosette repeated, her heart aching as she listened to him.  
Javert sat back, his back throbbing on cue and his hands balling into fists at the pain, "Right now, the only relief I desire is to lie down, the rest be damned".  
Cosette turned to her basket, picking out a small pouch, pleased that she had the foresight to bring this item and it's contents with her in advance of her decision. She stood, moving away from where Javert sat and proceeding to the cell door, all the time being watched cautiously by Javert who seemed to be silently questioning where she was suddenly going.  
"I have promised to help you", she stated, "now let us see what we can do?".  
With a strain she eased the heavy door open and left, pulling it shut behind her.  
Javert sat in silence, wondering exactly what his new ally were up to.

It took only moments for Cosette to walk the short distance from the passageway which housed the miserable cells to Monsieur Loiselet's office.  
"Come!", his voice called as she knocked upon his door.  
Cosette opened the door and entered, seeing Monsieur Loiselet seated behind his desk filling in paperwork. The office was of stark contrast to the cell she had just left, a window allowing in generous sunlight, a hat and warm coat hanging from a hook and various writing materials piled neatly on the desk.  
"Ah, Madame Pontmercy", he said as he looked up, pausing his writing and laying down his pen.  
Cosette entered further into the office and stood before his desk.  
Respectfully Monsieur Loiselet stood, "I trust all is well? Did your visit to the Policeman conclude satisfactorily?".  
"It is of him I wish to speak Monsieur Loiselet", Cosette began.  
"If he has caused you further upset Madame he will be punished", Loiselet said firmly.  
"No he has not", Cosette shook her head, "and I would appreciate it if there were no further chastisements of that nature against him".  
Monsieur Loiselet appeared surprised, hesitating for a moment in thought before once again sitting and indicating for her to also take a seat.  
"So...", Monsieur Loiselet began once both were seated, "you wish to discuss our Policeman?".  
"Yes", Cosette nodded, "may I ask what is to become of him? Long term I mean?".  
Monsieur Loiselet sat back in his chair, exhaling a deep breath.  
"The Policeman, I am sure you have realised, is of greatly unsound mind. When it strikes, he has little or no control over his madness", Loiselet began, "and like all the other souls here there is no family to claim him".  
Cosette continued to listen, the sadness of Javert's situation increasing her growing feeling of responsibility toward him. She had, it occurred to her, never asked him if he had family.  
"He has no one?", she asked.  
Monsieur Loiselet shook his head where he sat, "No one. That is why Monsieur Gisquet, his superior officer, approved the hospital's request to send him here. There was simply nowhere else, and there was no way he could be released to fend for himself in his state of mind. It was for the best".  
"With respect Monsieur Loiselet this seems hardly the best place for someone who needs help", she said in disagreement, "in fact, I do not see much help taking place at all".  
There was silence as Loiselet thought, trying to gather a response to give this sweet but naive girl. "Forgive me Madame Pontmercy, but there is no help for people like these", Loiselet explained, "there are those who argue that madness is caused by a chemical imbalance in the body, and some who still believe their souls are possessed by demons. I do not know, but by keeping them here we prevent them causing harm to themselves or anybody else".  
Cosette paused.  
"So you are saying he has no hope?", she asked, saddened by such an attitude.  
"We feed him, we clothe him, we provide him shelter", Monsieur Loiselet defended, "with no one to claim him and no family take responsibility for him that is all we can do, just like all the others. And to answer your question Madame, he is almost certain to remain here until the day he dies".  
Cosette took in a deep breath, saddened that anybody could disregard the life of another so easily.  
The time had come to do that which her heart told her was right, was necessary.  
She raised the pouch she held in her hand and placed it on the table under the nose of Monsieur Loiselet, it's contents making a metallic jangle as it landed on the hard desk.  
Leaning forward Cosette carefully untied the binding that held the pouch closed.  
"I and my family claim him. I will take responsibility for him", she stated as the pouch revealed that it contained a number of coins, "I trust this will be enough to see that he starts receiving any help he requires?".  
Monsieur Loiselet appeared genuinely dumbfounded at this unexpected turn of events, his eyes looking first to the currency and then to Cosette with a look of sheer surprise upon his face.  
"But...why? What is he to you?", he asked with genuine curiosity within his tone, "are you sure you understand what you are saying Madame? This isn't at all like adopting a stray dog. The man is tormented!".  
Cosette nodded, resolute in her decision to go ahead with that which she felt was right.  
"The man has a name, and if it is an explanation you require Monsieur then I will give you one. I did not realise who he was or that he was even here until my first visit", she began with complete honesty.  
Monsieur Loiselet listened with intense curiosity as Cosette spoke.  
"Inspector Javert was known to my late father...", Cosette continued with a formality to her words, trying to sound confident yet avoiding the entire truth whilst also trying to avoid lying, "...he and my father were acquaintances going back many years".  
"I see", a clearer understanding was now dawning on Monsieur Loiselet's face as he listened, as if pieces of a puzzle were falling into place before his eyes, "but you do realise that he cannot simply be cured overnight, if at all?".  
Cosette was relieved Monsieur Loiselet had not sought greater detail from her as to how her Papa knew Javert. She did not think herself as capable of telling a convincing lie nor had she, during all that had taken place, taken time to invent a false story. Inwardly she sighed a great breath of relief.  
"I understand perfectly Monsieur Loiselet, but my Papa raised me to help those in need and I cannot simply walk away from here leaving Inspector Javert to endure this suffering alone", she finished, concluding her explanation and offering no further detail.  
Monsieur Loiselet took a moment and then smiled at her briefly, nodding his head with admiration.  
"Alright", he said, "you seem to have a grasp on what you are doing and I dare say, if I may be so bold Madame, that your father has raised a fine and morally upstanding young lady".  
Cosette bowed her head slightly in an unspoken thanks as Monsieur Loiselet opened his desk drawer and removed a pile of documents.  
She sat as he methodically searched through them, each seeming to correspond to an inmate of the asylum.  
"Didier, no... Gounelle, no... Héroux, no... Jaccoud, no... Aha! Javert!", he pulled the record from the pile, glancing to double check it was the correct one before setting it on the desk.  
Cosette watched as Monsieur Loiselet examined the document.  
"Javert, Police Inspector, admitted July 8th 1832, failed attempt at suicide, greatly disturbed and of unsound mind, transfer authorised by M. Gisquet, Prefect of Police, Paris".  
Spinning the document round to face Cosette Monsieur Loiselet, leaning slightly forward across his desk, pointed at the bottom of the page.  
"By signing here you effectively become the closest thing he has to next of kin", he explained, watching the girl as her eyes scanned the document, taking in all it's details, "it doesn't entitle him to release, but it does give you say over what happens to him".  
"I understand", Cosette agreed.  
Monsieur Loiselet passed Cosette the pen he had been writing with when she had entered. Taking it in her hand she signed her name and the deed was done.  
She placed the pen down and pushed the document back to Monsieur Loiselet's side of the desk.  
"Now that is done, I do fully intend to help him recover enough to some day be released", Cosette stated, "I appreciate that this may not be any time soon, but he has to have hope".  
Doubt was clear on the face of Monsieur Loiselet, his expression clearly saying that which he would not speak aloud.  
"What do you intend to do?", he enquired.  
Cosette reached forward, pushing the pouch of money towards Monsieur Loiselet.  
"The Inspector is quite ill Monsieur. I want you to fetch a Doctor, a reputable Doctor", Cosette instructed, "...but first I ask one more thing...".

It had been some time since Cosette had abruptly left, leaving him once again chained and alone in his cell.  
During the time since her leaving Javert had finished the bread and drunk half of his water.  
The intake of both food and water after so long had caused him to feel somewhat stronger. It wasn't much and his body was still weak but he no longer trembled from hunger.  
He sat back slowly again, a splintering pain gripping his back as he leant causing him to grit his teeth until it passed.  
Holding the ends of his blanket in the fingers of his closely linked hands he once again pulled his blanked tight around himself. The feeling of warmth was something he had almost forgotten in the time he had been here. During these winter days the cold of the cell was such that was regularly able see his own breath as he sat shivering in his chains by the wall, frequently cursing the name of Valjean for his situation.  
Yet now he found himself warmed by the generosity of Valjean's adopted daughter.  
Javert pondered wether it were really him or the world itself that had finally gone mad.  
As if in answer to his question the cell door creaked then once again opened. Cosette peered around the heavy door before finally pushing it all the way open.  
"It is done", she announced with a pride to her voice as if an accomplishment had been made.  
Wincing, Javert looked quizzically up watching Cosette as she made her way to the basket she had left behind.  
"What is done?", he asked eyeing the girl with curiosity as she moved.  
Turning to him Cosette smiled, her smile reassuring, relieved, and a little pleased.  
"I signed paper work entitling me to assist you", she began, "now I can officially help you in any way I can and I promise I will do my best not to let you down".  
Such kindness, still alien to Javert, made him uncomfortable. The assistance the kindness brought was, he reluctantly admitted, quite welcome - it was the not knowing how to respond to such acts that troubled him.  
"It is I who must not let you down", Javert replied, more as a strict instruction to himself rather than a response to Cosette.  
He continued to observe Cosette as she went about what clearly appeared to be a pre-prepared mission.  
Reaching carefully into her basket Cosette lifted out what Javert recognised as more blankets.  
She unfolded the first one and spread it carefully on the floor before Javert, covering the cold stone and old straw.  
"What are you doing?", he asked, a mix of curiosity and confusion to his tone. He had always disliked not knowing what was happening.  
Cosette shook out and spread another blanket on top of the first, ensuring a second layer of blanket further subdued the cold of the floor.  
Looking at Javert with a determined expression she answered as she worked, "I am setting you on the path to recovery Javert, just trust me... a little?".  
Finally she took a third blanket and, leaving it folded, placed it at the top of the laid out blankets as if it were a pillow.  
"What is that for?", Javert asked with another cough, full in the knowledge that the tempting blankets were well out of his reach despite being so close infront of him.  
"Madame Pontmercy insisted upon it", a commanding male voice answered unexpectedly as Monsieur Loiselet strode into the cell through the open door.  
Javert's shoulders tensed, still feeling obliged to sit up straight before an authority figure even if it were one tasked with denying him freedom. His reaction came entirely naturally for it was the same respect he demanded of prisoners back in the old days, in Toulon.  
Monsieur Loiselet strode confidently up to Javert, small objects concealed within his closed hand. Javert cast his eyes down, unsure if he had done wrong, caused offence in some form and awaited whatever punishment was to come next. Once Monsieur Loiselet was stood beside him, Javert felt a hand grasp hold of his metal collar, pulling at it with a chinking of metal accompanying the action as it all the time pulled against his throat.  
Behind his closed lips he wolfishly bared his teeth assuming that Monsieur Loiselet were, on a whim, intent on tightening the hated device.  
There were several chink sounds, followed by that of metal slumping loosely against a stone wall. These were then followed by the clunk of the padlock being refastened.  
It took Javert a moment to comprehend what had just occurred, refusing at first to believe it and thinking it a trick of his mind.  
Cosette stepped forward, watching him and then leaning down to place a hand again on his shoulder.  
"It's gone Javert", she assured him with honestly clear upon her face, "you can move".  
Unconvinced, Javert raised his chained hands and felt. The collar was still in place and he reached for the padlock that kept him linked to the neck chain. His fingers haphazardly found it. It was there, but the neck chain was no longer attached. The wolf was no longer tethered.  
His eyes widened momentarily in an uncharacteristic bout of surprise and he looked to Cosette, sick as he was yet barely able to conceal his disbelief after so long.  
Cosette in turn looked to Monsieur Loiselet, still standing to the other side of Javert as if passing a silent instruction.  
Loiselet nodded in response and turned, kneeling down by Javert's ankles where his legs lay outstretched before him.  
Taking hold of a key from the same bunch, Loiselet leant forward and unfastened the ankle shackle nearest him. With a shake the shackle reluctantly opened, Loiselet releasing Javert's left ankle to reveal a mess of both scaring and weeping lacerations that eighteen months of fighting it had resulted in.  
Javert stared straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge the wounds in the presence of Monsieur Loiselet. It was, after all, nothing he hadn't seen before in his years at Toulon.  
"He needs to lie down", Cosette instructed, her tone sounding almost an order after having seen the extent of Javert's shackle wounds.  
"Can you stand Javert?", Monsieur Loiselet looked down at the man in his charge, his voice authoritative.  
Javert nodded, refusing to show weakness to Monsieur Loiselet. He was a proud man, not a dog that had been housebroken.  
His weakened legs lay outstretched before him and, summoning what little strength remained, he slowly moved them. He had rarely stood in the last few weeks, there seeming to be little point since he could do no more than shuffle a mere handful of minuscule paces before the neck chain halted his advance. His weakened muscles had only complied during outbursts of rage which had soon passed with the subsiding of the resultant adrenalin rush. With effort his knees bent as he pulled his legs in, trying to force himself upwards and leaning painfully against the wall for support. With each movement the chains of his half released ankle shackles clattered as the shackle attached to his left ankle dragged the released right shackle along the stone floor.  
Understanding the struggle she witnessed Cosette took hold of Javert under his arm, nodding a second silent instruction to Monsieur Loiselet for him to do the same.  
With a strained breath and trembling body Javert slowly stood, his weight leaning almost entirely against the wall.  
"You're doing fine...", Cosette spoke gently, increasingly aware of the fact that his legs were shaking from the strain.  
"Can you take a step?", Monsieur Loiselet this time cut in as he supported Javert from his left side.  
Tentatively Javert, blanket still wrapped around his shoulders, moved his right foot, supported around his waist by both Cosette and Monsieur Loiselet.  
"Gently does it", Cosette urged as she attempted to shoulder her burden of Javert's weight as best as a small built young lady could.  
"And another...", Monsieur Loiselet prompted, feeling ever more clearly the shaking of Javert's unsteady legs.  
With a couple more steps Javert stepped onto the blankets that had been laid out.  
"Let's get you gently to your knees first", Cosette suggested.  
Javert nodded. His breathing was becoming heavier through the exertion and slowly his assistants helped him lower himself to his knees.  
Immediately Javert leaned forward, placing his chained hands onto the blankets laid out before him for balance. His long hair fell forwards as his body acclimatised to moving almost freely, and he coughed deeply, struggling once again to catch a breath.  
"Monsieur Loiselet", Cosette began with urgency, "thank you for your assistance but would you please now be kind enough to summon the Doctor we spoke of?".  
"Certainly", Monsieur Loiselet nodded before getting to his feet, wiping his hands against his clothing and leaving.  
When after some moments his cough subsided, Javert looked to Cosette stood beside him, unsure of quite what to say.  
"You need to lie down Javert, the Doctor is on his way", she urged.  
Still trembling from the sudden movement Javert lowered himself forward onto the blankets with Cosette's help, slightly less uncomfortable in his weakness now Monsieur Loiselet had left.  
Once lowered onto the blankets Javert shuffled onto his side, finally relenting and allowing himself a prolonged yet muffled cry of pain.  
Alarm spread upon Cosette's face as she heard this, "Your back?", she asked as she knelt beside him, his back toward her.  
"Yes... It will pass", he assured her with a prolonged grimace, "I am not used to movement".  
Cosette again nodded in understanding yet fully aware that she could not comprehend the discomfort he suffered.  
"Are you comfortable on your side?", she asked where she knelt as she pulled his blanket from his shoulders and prepared to cover him properly with it now he was laid down.  
"I will find this easier to breathe", he explained, another cough passing as he spoke.  
Once more Cosette nodded, respecting his wishes.  
She began to place the blanket over him as he lay with his back towards her on this makeshift bed she had prepared when she stopped abruptly, eyes focused on his pained back.  
"My goodness, your back!", she exclaimed as she cast her eyes upon the damp and filthy rags which clad his back.  
A hole had been worn clean through the rags just below his right shoulder blade, rubbed away by months of contact with the rough stone of the wall. The exposed skin was red, scuffed and scratched, topped with a large blister of painful appearance.  
"It is a mess?", Javert enquired in a tired whisper.  
"I'm afraid so", Cosette said sadly as she continued from where she had halted, pulling the blanket over him to his shoulders and covering his chained hands that lay out before him.  
His head lay on the folded blanket that was to act as a pillow, and he exhaled a deep husky breath, finally allowing his aching muscles to relax a little as the warmth of the blankets began to spread through his aching and sore body.  
"Cosette", he called through his exhaustion, "I must remind you that I have no funds to pay for a doctor".  
"It is taken care of", Cosette gently reassured, her hand as ever placed on his shoulder as he lay before her.  
"You know I dislike charity...", he breathed quietly, his disdain at having fallen this far clear within his wounded pride, "...I must repay you".  
Cosette sighed. The more time she spent with Javert the more her heart broke for him, and yet with each protest he made against accepting charity or causing her inconvenience, the more her respect for him grew. It pained her greatly to witness the state this fearsome policeman described in her fathers writings had been reduced to.  
"Then repay me with stories of my Papa, what the Jean Valjean you knew was like", she compromised.  
Javert lay quiet for several moments, the sensation of warmth luring him towards a drowsiness he was unable to fight.  
"They are not all good stories...", he answered with hesitation.  
"I want to hear them...from you", Cosette looked down at his exhausted form, "but first I want you to rest. The Doctor will be here as soon as he can".  
Wordlessly Javert nodded, his eyes slowly closing for the first peaceful time since his arrival eighteen months ago.  
Cosette watched in silence, well aware that Javert had finally succumbed and drifted off into a desperately needed sleep.  
Gently she continued soothing his arm with the thumb of her hand as he slept, watching over him like a guard dog.  
As she watched him she recalled a quote from her fathers writings, from the night he had released Javert unharmed from the barricade.  
Looking down at the sleeping form of Javert she whispered these words of forgiveness aloud.  
"You've done your duty, nothing more".

End chapter 4.


	5. I Am From The Gutter Too

_Dear readers... When I uploaded chapter 4 it, for reasons unknown, did not upload the complete chapter. This left the story cutting off mid way through the chapter. I corrected this soon after but please just double back and check you have read all of chapter 4 before proceding otherwise things will not make sense. The correct chapter 4 will end with "End chapter 4". Apologies, I do not know why this happened - gremlins._ _This chapter involves a very short scene of a sexual nature (not overly graphic). I do not know the age of my readers so if you do not think you should be reading then please stop now._ _Another note: Neither the book nor the stage version ever seems to make it clear wether the prison Javert was born in was Toulon. Since I am unsure wether women prisoners were present in Toulon (I am not a historian) I have deliberately left the prison nameless. If women prisoners were in Toulon then please go ahead and imagine the relevant part of this chapter as being set there, if they weren't then please imagine it being set elsewhere and Javert was merely posted to Toulon during his career._ _Again, thank you so much to all who read. Every single comment gives me a little thrill inside :)_

**Broken Man - Chapter 5**

_"You know nothing of Javert!_  
_I was born inside a jail,_  
_I was born with scum like you,_  
_I am from the gutter too..."_

Three hours.  
Since the departure of Monsieur Loiselet Javert had slept peacefully and undisturbed for three hours. During that time Cosette had kept a silent vigil at his side, watching over him and ensuring he remained both covered, warm and as comfortable as circumstances would allow.  
During these three long hours Javert had never once stirred, his chest delivering the occasional rattle as he breathed was the only sound to be heard.  
Cosette had hoped the Doctor would come quicker, immediately had been her hope but it was not to be.  
Monsieur Loiselet had returned explaining that the Doctor was currently out, dealing with an accident nearby where an old building was being pulled down.  
A beam had fallen and several workers had been injured.  
Upon calling at the Doctors address Monsieur Loiselet had encountered the Doctors wife who was also both his secretary and book keeper. She had assured him that once he returned he would call at the asylum straight away.  
The delay, Cosette acknowledged, had at least allowed Javert to gain the rest he so desperately needed without being disturbed.  
She watched him as he slept. His blankets moved gently with his breathing as he lay on his side and his long and greying dark hair flowed loose over the folded blanket which served him as a pillow. A hue of silver imbued his hair with a colour similar to that Cosette imagined of a wolf's pelt.  
Cosette leaned in closer to Javert, observing him with growing concern as he slept.  
With the lightest of touches she placed the back of her pale hand across his forehead, wishing the Doctor would hasten his arrival.  
An anxious sigh escaped her lungs as she looked down upon Javert.  
His temperature was rapidly rising, his skin warmer to the touch than would be expected of someone residing in a cold cell, and he had in the last couple of hours begun to sweat.  
During the last hour Cosette had taken the opportunity to ask a guard to fetch a pail of clean water and to provide her with a cloth, rag or some form of useable material.  
The guard had duly returned a few minutes later with the requested water and some torn up pieces of rag.  
As she had done on several occasions during this past hour, Cosette dipped the rag into the cool water and rung it out before dabbing it gently across Javert's forehead.  
Again he did not stir, Cosette herself finding this alarming for one as alert and on edge as Javert.  
She continued her work, dabbing the cold cloth over his increasingly hot forehead and face.  
The events of the day had unfolded so fast, her life again having changed once more with the passing this day.  
Upon leaving the safety of her home this morning Cosette had held the expectation that Javert would reject her return, that he would not receive her or that he would expel her from his presence for the simple misdeed of being the daughter of Jean Valjean.  
The day had imparted upon Cosette revelations that she could never have expected. The first, that Javert was not the tyrant she had expected. The fact that he was a good, honest and moral man had come as a surprise. She had expected an ogre, but like a myth which grows out of all proportion, the reality had revealed a different man entirely.  
Secondly, that in just hours she had formed a bond with this man of rigid inflexibility, honour and fiercely guarded independence.  
She wondered briefly if she were dreaming, that perhaps she had not yet woken and none of this were real.  
To start the day in fear of a man, and end it watching faithfully over him as his only protector almost beggared belief.  
Again she dabbed his forehead, sweat trickling across his face as he remained on his side.  
Cosette placed the cloth back in the water, ringing it out once more before tending again to his searing brow.  
Her sensation of anxiety, deep within her, began to rise as she watched him. Knowing he was worsening with each passing hour she once more placed her hand on his shoulder, attempting to sooth him despite knowing this gesture was futile and made little difference. In a way, she admitted, it made her feel better, calmer.  
As if in answer to her prayer the cell door creaked as it began to open. Looking around Cosette saw Monsieur Loiselet enter the cell, a man followed behind him wearing a thick winter coat, a top hat and carrying a Doctors satchel.  
"Madame...", Monsieur Loiselet called quietly as he entered, "Doctor Reynaud has arrived".  
Monsieur Loiselet held out a hand, gesturing Doctor Reynaud to where Javert lay.  
Cosette watched as the Doctor stepped towards Javert, kneeling down next to him, removing his hat and placing both it and his satchel on the ground. He nodded in greeting to Cosette as she knelt opposite him at Javert's right side.  
"Tell me his information", Reynaud instructed with a businesslike tone as he opened his satchel, "his history".  
Monsieur Loiselet stepped forward, standing by Cosette.  
"He's been here a year and a half due to suffering a mental breakdown and attempting to take his own life", Monsieur Loiselet explained, "his chest has been bad for quite some time now with no sign of improvement".  
"He's getting worse", Cosette interjected, "his temperature is rising and he is sweating profusely".  
Doctor Reynaud listened, nodding in response as he felt his patients forehead and took a mental note of the words being spoken to him.  
"Yes, he has a definite fever", the Doctor confirmed, "his body is doing all it can to fight his illness".  
"He is very weak though...", Cosette continued with the concern in her voice clearly evident, "it took two of us just to help him over here to lie down. Monsieur, he has sat chained against that wall and unable to lie down all these months. He is in such terrible pain as a result".  
"That...", Monsieur Loiselet interjected clearing his throat and clearly trying to remain polite, "... is because this is an asylum for the mentally disturbed, not a hotel"  
The Doctor held his hands up, silencing both parties immediately.  
"Madame... Monsieur...", he spoke, "The reasons are not my concern, merely the facts".  
Both nodded apologetically and looked down.  
"Now, I need his name, his age, wether he has any known allergies or long term illnesses", the Doctor returned to his business at hand.  
Before anyone could answer a long and sickly cough interrupted, a harsh and gravelly breath following it.  
Cosette looked down, placing her hands gently on Javert's covered shoulder as she observed his good eye struggling to open.  
"Javert...", he breathed with a faint voice in answer to the Doctors question... "Javert... Fifty three years...".  
Cosette leaned forward, noting that Javert was barely able to keep even his good eye open.  
"Javert, this is Doctor Reynaud", she spoke quietly just above his ear, "he is going to help you, to make you well".  
With little strength Javert nodded, unable to say anything further, his cough once again shaking his body under the blankets.  
The Doctor looked up, first to Monsieur Loiselet and then to Cosette.  
"I believe I know everything I need to know", the Doctor began, "now if you will both excuse me I require some privacy within which I can properly examine Monsieur Javert".  
"Of course", Monsieur Loiselet nodded and reached down, extending his hand towards Cosette.  
With uncertainly on her face Cosette took the offered hand and rose to her feet, her eyes never wavering from Javert.  
"You will take care of him?", her voice sounded almost childlike as Monsieur Loiselet gently led her to the cell door.  
"I promise I will do all I can Madame", Doctor Reynaud nodded.  
Cosette looked back one last time as she left the cell, seeing Doctor Reynaud as he leant forward and placed two fingers onto Javert's neck near to his collar to check his pulse.  
Slowly they moved away from the cell and began to walk down the cold passageway.  
"He will call us when he is done", Monsieur Loiselet assured as he indicated for Cosette to accompany him, "it is best if they are alone, the Doctor can work undisturbed. Besides, it would not be appropriate for a man to be examined before the eyes of a lady".  
The walk to Monsieur Loiselet's office was slow. Once there he pulled the chair out from under his desk and gestured politely for Cosette to sit.  
With a nod of acceptance she complied, sitting once again at his desk and watching as he seated himself the other side.  
Neither spoke for some moments, nobody knowing quite what to say.  
Finally Monsieur Loiselet leaned forward, picking up a finely cut glass decanter from his desk and pouring it's golden liquid into one of two glasses which sat next to it.  
"Brandy", he explained, "I find it warms me on these winter days. Would you care for a drop?".  
Cosette shook her head, her hands sitting clasped in her lap, her fingers fidgeting and her body tense.  
"No", she replied, "No thank you, I do not care for such drinks of such strength".  
Again another silence fell.  
"It is very kind of you", Monsieur Loiselet began again, "all that you are doing for him".  
"He deserves a little kindness", Cosette answered, "Somehow I do not think he has received much in his life".  
"What do you have planned? I will admit that I am very curious to see wether there is anything you can do to help his mind heal", Monsieur Loiselet continued as he finished his Brandy and set the glass down on his desk, curious to know Cosette's response.  
"You said just now in the cell that this is an asylum not a hotel", Cosette began as she looked up, unsure of wether to make this point.  
"I did not mean to offend", Monsieur Loiselet said apologetically.  
"But it is not a prison either", Cosette continued, "and yet Inspector Javert is locked away in that cell, chained like a criminal. Is it any wonder his mind does not heal?".  
"What are you saying?", Monsieur Loiselet dug further, "that we should just open the door and let him walk out?".  
Cosette shook her head. She did not wish for an argument but she did wish to make her point.  
"No, no even I see he is not ready. The attacks he suffers are frightening to witness", she attempted an explanation, "but he can only heal if he is treated less like an animal and more like a man".  
Monsieur Loiselet sat back as he listened, "You are his next of kin now, what would you suggest?".  
"Such simple little things", Cosette answered, her face imploring him to listen, "he suffers such terrible pain in his back from being sat against that wall, from being unable to lie down, he needs something to sit on".  
Monsieur Loiselet tapped his fingers on his desk, thinking.  
"There is an abandoned office further down the passageway", he began, "it has not been used for years. We use it mainly for storage now but I believe there is an old stool in there. I shall have to check, but if so will this suffice?".  
For the first time since Javert had fallen asleep Cosette smiled.  
"Yes! Thank you!", she beamed, "I did not expect you to agree".  
"It is not a huge thing to ask", he admitted, "and I am interested to see where this experiment in healing him leads".  
Cosette's smile continued before Monsieur Loiselet spoke again.  
"Will there be anything else?", he asked.  
Cosette thought, weighing up the views and opinions her visits had given her.  
"I do not believe", she began, "that leaving a damaged mind unoccupied and idle can be beneficial".  
Monsieur Loiselet listened, allowing Cosette again to explain her point.  
"Inspector Javert was a hard working man. With nothing to focus on he dwells on his situation, he loses control of his thoughts and this brings on an attack", she explained, "I intend to bring him something to read. Even if it is just the newspaper, he needs to be able to be able to focus on something, to have something to occupy his mind, something other than constant thoughts of being trapped for life in that cell or flashbacks to his attempt at suicide".  
"Alright", Monsieur Loiselet nodded, "your idea seems sound. Bring your reading materials and I will have one of the guards bring that old stool".  
"Thank you so much Monsieur Loiselet", Cosette smiled for several moments before her smile faded.  
"What's wrong?", Loiselet enquired as he watched her demeanour change.  
"I hope I am not getting ahead of myself. I am hoping firstly that he has the strength to recover", Cosette sounded as if a tremendous weight bore down upon her soul, "he really is so ill, so pained, and so tired".  
"He is strong", Monsieur Loiselet confirmed, "I have seen him fight those chains of his all these months. When he needs it there is a strength and rage within him like that of a wild animal".  
Cosette breathed out a sigh, "I hope so".  
For the best portion of the next hour the conversation moved to small talk. Monsieur Loiselet explained that he had governed the asylum for seven years. Prior to this he had been a soldier in the army until an accident while his unit shifted canons had left him unable to bare much weight on his right knee over long distances. This had seen him granted an honourable discharge and he had moved to Paris, married, fathered two children and enjoyed fishing on the rare occasions when the family visited the countryside to see their in-laws.  
In turn Cosette had explained that she had spent a great portion of her life being raised in a convent, that her late Papa had invested in manufacturing, this being not entirely untrue, and that she had recently married her love Marius.  
The conversation continued for some time. Discussions of small things, wether it might snow this year and how much rain there had been recently all ceased as a knock rang out on the door of Monsieur Loiselet's office.  
The door opened and a guard stepped in looking to both Cosette and Monsieur Loiselet.  
"The Doctor is asking for you both", the guard said, pushing the door wide open to make way.  
Cosette hurried to her feet, a sensation of nerves jangling within her as she briskly strode towards the door, followed closely by Monsieur Loiselet.  
The pair made their way down the passageway towards the cell, it's door open.  
Cosette was first to enter, followed by Monsieur Loiselet who stood respectfully back remaining by the door.  
Javert now lay on his back, the rag that made for a cold compress lay across his forehead as Doctor Reynaud pulled the blanket that covered him back over Javert's body.  
Cosette stepped slowly forward, her expression pleading for news.  
"How is he Doctor?", she asked quietly, "will he be alright?".  
"You must be Cosette", the Doctor noted as he looked to her, watching her as she knelt beside his patient.  
"I am", she nodded.  
"He has muttered your name during moments of deliriousness", the Doctor explained.  
The doctor placed the last few items away and then focused his attention primarily on Cosette.  
"Monsieur Javert is very ill. He is suffering a serious chest infection and his fever is increasing rapidly, however, his cough shows no sign of producing blood and this is a good sign. I do believe we have caught this infection before it could worsen to a point from which would be unable to recover from", the Doctor explained.  
"So, he will get better?", Cosette asked, daring to allow herself a speck of hope.  
"He is very weak Cosette, both undernourished and dehydrated, but the odds are reasonable for a recovery. You have done well already by keeping his body warm and his head cooled, and I have given him a dose of quinine. Until his fever breaks you can do nothing more than continue as you are doing".  
Cosette again nodded, a smile now beginning to emerge on her face upon hearing that Javert stood a decent chance of survival.  
The Doctor continued.  
"There are a few important points. If and when he is able, he must drink, so please make sure he is supplied with plenty of clean drinking water, this meagre cup is not enough. Second, as soon as he is able to move, he must be relieved of these damp rags which pass for clothing. Cold damp rags will only hamper his recovery and cause him to fall ill again".  
Cosette was pleased. She had been appalled at the state of the rags Javert had been expected to wear. With eighteen months of wear they were frayed, filthy, bearing smears from bloodied wrists and holed in the back from near constant friction with the wall.  
"One more important thing", Doctor Reynaud looked this time to Monsieur Loiselet, "these shackles binding his wrists and the remaining one on his ankle, I insist they be removed as a matter of urgency so the wounds beneath them can be bandaged".  
Monsieur Loiselet paused before answering, Cosette turning to look at him.  
"I don't know...", Loiselet considered the request, "it is a rule that inmates must bare some form of restraint at all times - to protect guards from attacks".  
"He can't even stand!", Cosette insisted, her eyes looking to Loiselet's own, pleading.  
"Monsieur Loiselet", the Doctor continued, "the shackles have left wounds of some significance. If they are not treated then they stand a very good chance of becoming infected. If that happens then the worst case scenario is the wound becomes gangrenous and he could lose a hand or a foot, something I doubt he could survive at present".  
Monsieur Loiselet breathed out in reluctant agreement and left the cell without a word.  
He returned some moments later, walking briskly in before kneeling beside Cosette, a set of small keys in one hand and a bundle of rolled up bandages in the other.  
"I do not agree with this", he admitted, "but while he is in no state to move I shall comply".  
Cosette nodded a silent thank you as Monsieur Loiselet handed the bandages to the Doctor.  
Reynaud leant forward and pulled back the blanket which covered Javert's fevered body.  
His arms lay unmoving by his side as he lay on his sore back, his elbows bending inwards with his wrists meeting centrally where they lay shackled upon the ragged clothing covering his abdomen.  
After taking a moment to identify the correct key Monsieur Loiselet leant forwards and, taking a shackle in his hand, he unlocked it.  
Cosette gently took hold of Javert's left hand as his wrist was released. The skin beneath was scarred. Eighteen months worth of cuts, lacerations and flesh both torn and scraped were revealed with the shackles removal. Cuts which had partly healed only to be reopened by later struggles glistened with a coating of clear liquid mixed with blood seeping from the wounds.  
Cosette let out a breath of sorrow upon seeing the wounds his wrists bore, scarcely able to imagine the discomfort the shackles must have caused him to endure each day.  
Gently she set his freed arm down at his side, all the while being mindful not to disturb the wounds.  
A slight movement, in turn followed by the faint sound of a gruff voice attempting with difficulty to verbalise something took Cosette's attention.  
She looked around briskly at the source and saw Javert's good eye partly open.  
He struggled once more to speak, again only able to voice a gruff sound before he could attempt no more.  
"He drifts in and out of consciousness", the Doctor explained, "he's too delirious to speak, but he may understand what's happening".  
Slowly Javert flexed his fingers as the second shackle was unfastened.  
It revealed similar wounds and Cosette, leaning over him, placed his other arm gently down at his right side, again ensuring that she did not disturb the newly exposed wounds.  
It was the first time in eighteen months that his chained wrists had been parted and in response Javert, unable to find the strength or voice to form words, breathed out a sigh clearly filled with relief.  
Robbed of his ability to form words he slowly moved his head, giving the smallest of nods, before slowly closing his good eye once more, his features relaxing as he again fell back into a fevered sleep.  
"I think he approves", Doctor Reynaud observed as he unfolded the first of the bandages.  
He picked up Javert's right wrist and examined the wounds as Monsieur Loiselet moved around and and released the remaining shackle from Javert's ankle.  
"Hmmm... The wounds are reasonably clean", Doctor Reynaud observed as he began to wrap the bandage around Javert's wrist before fastening it with a pin.  
He then moved around to his patients left side, Cosette moving politely aside. The left wrist wound required a little cleaning, specks of rust from the shackle having to be picked out, before it too was wrapped in the clean bandages.  
"I do not believe any stitches are necessary", Doctor Reynaud observed as he worked, "These wounds are the result of much struggling and rough metal chafing against the flesh over a long period of time".  
Once more he moved, bringing himself to Javert's ankles.  
"I appreciate that this facility's resources may be minimal but please ensure his bandages are changed at the very least every two days", Doctor Reynaud instructed as he began bandaging the ankle wounds, "and if the wounds begin to seep through, or you see blood, please change them immediately".  
Cosette and Monsieur Loiselet both nodded, understanding their instructions fully.  
Upon completing his task of bandaging Doctor Reynaud sat back where he knelt, casting a look over his patient deep in both fever and sleep, and then to both Cosette and Monsieur Loiselet.  
"As for his back, he was not responsive enough to answer much in the way of questions so I feel I should return once he is improved and examine him further, but I do believe that eighteen months in that chain...", he pointed to the neck chain where it still hung from the wall, "...is most certain to have proved damaging. His muscles, his spine, the human body needs to lie down to rest. You say it took two of you just to get him to these blankets?".  
Cosette nodded. Reaching forward she took hold of the pulled back blanket and, now the bandaging was complete, again spread it over Javert's body once more, covering him tidily.  
"It took tremendous effort for him to force himself to stand, he had to lean his weight on the wall", Cosette recalled as the Doctor listened, "but he couldn't even do as much as take a step on his own".  
The Doctor paused, listening to the words and thinking.  
Finally he looked to Cosette, his expression serious.  
"When I arrived here Monsieur Loiselet informed me that you wish to aid this man in his recovery, some family connection to him?", he asked.  
"That is correct", Cosette answered.  
"Then when he is recovered enough you are going to have to encourage him to move, to make use of his legs", the Doctor directed, "in my examination I found his leg muscles to be severely weakened, wasted away from such disuse. You are going to have to change that... With Monsieur Loiselet's permission of course?".  
Monsieur Loiselet nodded, "As long as the means are acceptable it shall be done".  
"I will do everything in my power to encourage him", Cosette promised.  
"There is more. I am told that you and your family are covering all costs relating to his rehabilitation?", the Doctor enquired.  
Cosette nodded, hoping that this Doctor was not going to suddenly judge this as money making potential and triple his bill.  
"Then you must improve his diet. This dire bread is not enough to keep a rat alive", Reynaud discarded the remains of the bread which sat near Javert, "his diet must be both improved and increased if he is to grow stronger. He does not need to eat like a king, but this bread must be supplemented with some meat, some fruit, there are some wonderful oranges from Spain in some of the markets at the moment - my wife insists upon them".  
"I will do just that", Cosette agreed as if having just been handed a mission, "I will have Nicolette, of my house staff, fetch foods that will be beneficial to him".  
The Doctor nodded, looked to Cosette and then a few moments later to Monsieur Loiselet as if the proceedings had paused.  
"Monsieur Loiselet", he finally spoke, "would you mind if I spoke to the young lady alone for a moment?".  
Monsieur Loiselet nodded, clearly curious but politely compliant, "Of course, there is a brief matter I must attend to immediately anyway".  
With that Monsieur Loiselet left the cell, his footsteps fading away down the passageway with an air of determination to them.  
Finally Doctor Reynaud looked to Cosette, a mix of both curiosity and concern coming to her expression.  
"Madame...", he paused, "has Monsieur Javert mentioned anything at all to you regarding an irregularity with his heartbeat?".  
Cosette's nerves leapt upon hearing these words. The news that a recovery was expected had elated her and now the threat of there being something wrong was dragging this good news down, crashing it back to earth.  
"No", she answered with honesty, "No, he never mentioned anything".  
The Doctor thought, saying nothing for several moments.  
"Before you become too alarmed Madame, it is possible that it is nothing", he assured, "but having listened to his heartbeat, he does have a slightly irregular rhythm. Now it could be due to his current illness, or it could be something simple, age maybe, or perhaps a quirk he has had all his life with no ill effects... Or it could be the result of the stress and strain of his incarceration. I am told he suffers attacks of great fear, anxiety, rage?".  
Cosette looked down, nodding as she did so.  
"He does", she answered, "he tries to fight it but these thoughts, so dark, they overwhelm him".  
"I see...", Reynaud continued to listen, "and your plan is to help him recover so he may one day go free?".  
"That is correct", Cosette nodded.  
Reynaud looked down to Javert and then back to Cosette, "You do realise that very few people ever leave these places Madame?".  
Cosette sighed, anticipating another attempt to dissuade her from her chosen path.  
"I realise that Monsieur", she defended, "but not many of these people have someone willing to try, he does".  
"That is a fair point", the Doctor acknowledged but his voice soon became grave, "but have you really thought this through?".  
She hadn't. She knew she hadn't. She had gone into this lead fully by both her heart and her morals but with no firm plan of action.  
"I will do all that I can Monsieur", she answered with a confidence to her voice that, she hoped, had hidden her uncertainty.  
"Really?", the Doctor quizzed, "then let's say hypothetically that he recovers and is released, what then? Where will he go? What will he do?".  
Cosette fell suddenly silent, her eyes slowly looking down as she searched for an answer.  
She had none.  
Recognising the young lady before him was at a loss for a response the Doctor decided to continue his point.  
"Monsieur Loiselet told me Monsieur Javert was once a Police Inspector", he paused momentarily, ensuring his words were clearly being taken in, "you do realise he can never return to that profession, not after he has been held in a place such as this? It would simply not be permitted".  
"I...", Cosette tried to form a response but had no inkling of what to say.  
She reluctantly admitted to herself that she hadn't thought about any of this.  
Her idealistic mind had thought simply, too simply, that Javert could eventually recover and return to his old life as the proud Police Inspector.  
Now reality was biting and she recalled Javert's words to her about life not being fair.  
"_Despite the fairy tales, fairness has little or no bearing on life. The policeman in chains. Hardly life being fair, do you see?_", were the words he had spoken to her prior to his illness peaking and his fever striking him down.  
Cosette looked at the ground and closed her eyes, a tide of shame passing through her as she realised how little she both knew and understood of the real world, sheltered as her upbringing had been.  
She opened her eyes as Doctor Reynaud spoke once more.  
"And where will he go if he recovers? If he had lodgings they will certainly have been cleared and rented out again since", he stated, "no one will offer work to one released from an asylum, and with no finances or lodgings he will be destitute, out on the streets like all the other beggars. Madame, please consider, is this what he would really want?".  
Cosette was silent, feeling like a child who had been admonished.  
For the first time since deciding to aid Javert she felt indecision, her stomach feeling sick at the treacherous thought of reconsidering.  
"Madame please do not think this a personal attack", Reynaud said softly upon recognising her inner turmoil, "if everybody was as charitable as your good self this world would be perfect... But this world is not perfect. Please, do not decide now, but think over what I have said.".  
"But he needs help...", Cosette said in the tiniest of voices.  
"Lots of people need help my dear, but we can't help them all. He is secure here. You have improved his conditions, he is free of his chains, and he has food and shelter. Perhaps kind Madame, you have done enough?".  
Cosette remained silent still, with no idea how to respond. Looking down she watched Javert sleeping before her, sweat glistening on his face and his breathing as scratchy as glasspaper.  
She thought, weighing up the possibilities of what could happen if she left him, if she abandoned him.  
It would, she concluded, be an ultimate betrayal of trust, reinforcing his belief than anyone connected to Jean Valjean were by definition untrustworthy. To offer much needed help to one in need and to then withdraw that help would go against everything she had ever been taught, both by her Papa and by the sisters who educated her in Christian teachings at the convent.  
To commit such an act would be akin to offering a drowning man a lifeline and then pulling it away once it was within reach.  
Javert had come close to drowning once before and she would not allow it to happen again.  
She leant forward protectively and gently lifted the rag from Javert's forehead, once more dipping it into the pail of water beside her and ringing it out.  
With the lightest of touches she once more tended him, dabbing the cold rag over his sweat covered face before finally placing it gently back across his forehead.  
"I will not leave him", she finally spoke recalling her own Papa sitting alone and without help as cold and illness robbed him of strength during the passing of his final days, "To turn away from this man, to abandon him during his time of need would be an act of unforgivable selfishness".  
"No one would know...", the Doctor quietly urged, tempting her one last time from her chosen path.  
"I would know", Cosette shook her head, firm in her decision, "The good Lord would know, and my Papa - God rest his soul - would know".  
Respectfully, Doctor Reynaud nodded, replacing his top hat and rising slowly to his feet, picking up his Doctors satchel and removing a small glass vial before closing it.  
"Then I shall mention it no more", he politely agreed as he held out the vial for Cosette to take.  
Sensing the visit was at an end Cosette too rose. She took the offered vial from the Doctors hand and look at it curiously.  
"It is a mild sedative", he explained, "if Monsieur Javert requires it, or you feel he needs a peaceful rest, please add two or three drops to his drinking water. It is not strong, but it will help ease him to sleep".  
Cosette smiled and accepted the vial.  
"Thank you Doctor Reynaud", she said as she watched him begin to move away towards the cell door, "I appreciate all you have done for him, and I do appreciate you pointing out the gravity of the commitment I have taken on through my vow to aid Javert".  
"I wish you luck", Reynaud looked once more to Javert as he neared the door, "and if he worsens, please send for me".  
"I shall", Cosette nodded, "Monsieur Loiselet will see to your payment. He holds the funds in his office".  
Doctor Reynaud leant forward in a polite bow, politely doffed his hat then turned and left the cell.  
Once more Cosette found herself alone with Javert, his gravelly breathing the only sound to be heard.  
She returned to her self appointed place, kneeling by his side and watching over him.  
Occasionally his fingers twitched, the movement visible under his blankets, reacting as if he were lost in a far off dream. Watching, she hoped desperately that he were not at the mercy of the darker thoughts which attacked him with regularity. Under the influence of Doctor Reynauds medication it would, Cosette assumed, be unlikely that Javert would wake with ease from whatever thoughts consumed his mind in his current state.  
Another twitch, and this time a faint sound. Cosette leaned nearer.  
She knew she had heard it, a faint whisper, a word so quiet she had been unable to make it out, but it had been there.  
She remained silent, wondering what thoughts or dreams were occurring in his frayed mind.  
She would not intervene by attempting to rouse him. He needed rest desperately if he were to recuperate.  
Once more she saw his lips move, a movement so slight she had almost missed it. Again the word was too faint to be deciphered, the result of whatever dream or memory were roaming his sleeping mind.  
"The Doctor is paid", a voice came from the cell door.  
Monsieur Loiselet entered carrying the stool Cosette had requested earlier. Carried in a long loop hanging from his left arm was also a long length of chain.  
"Oh you brought the stool!", Cosette gratefully observed as she watched Monsieur Loiselet approach and place it next to her, "Thank you so much".  
"It was no trouble", Monsieur Loiselet nodded indicating for Cosette to rise and sit on it herself, "you may as well be seated, besides it is not right that a lady kneel in the dirt of a place such as this".  
Cosette nodded in gratitude and seated herself as requested on the stool.  
It was a low stool, used previously by guards for polishing boots - a habit Monsieur Loiselet had initially brought with him after leaving the army.  
As the stool was low Cosette found she was able to sit while still watching very closely over Javert for any signs of change, movement or distress.  
"Don't thank me too soon", Monsieur Loiselet continued and strode over to the wall where Javert had been chained for so long, "it comes at a price. Call it a compromise".  
Cosette watched him as he worked, a cold suspicion growing within her as she saw Monsieur Loiselet place down the length of chain he carried.  
He looked at the original neck chain hanging from the wall. From his pocket he produced another sturdy padlock and fitted it through the final link which had once attached it to Javert's collar. He then placed the new chain on the ground, keeping one end of it in his hand.  
With a brief movement he placed the first link of the new chain into the padlock and fastened it, the end result joining the two sets of chains into one single chain of much longer length.  
"What are you doing?", Cosette asked protectively as she watched with a sinking feeling.  
For a moment Monsieur Loiselet failed to answer, his eyes focused on the long chain as he ran it through his hands in search of the other end.  
"This is his compromise", he finally replied as he moved towards Javert with the new longer chain in his hand, "and I know you're not going to like it, but I cannot allow him to be completely freed. It is against all rules".  
"What danger is he right now? Tell me!", Cosette protested, a genuine anger begining to smoulder within her.  
Monsieur Loiselet knelt next to Javert, the opposite side of him to Cosette and took hold of his collar, turning it roughly around the fevered mans neck until the padlock that secured it was revealed.  
"Right now he is no danger", Loiselet admitted, "but if I wait until he is recovered before chaining him again there could be a struggle, especially if he suffers another attack of his madness. I wish myself and my men to avoid that".  
"This is barbaric", Cosette objected, "chaining a sickened man!".  
Monsieur Loiselet bit his tongue, forcing himself to remain calm and not enter into a heated debate with a lady.  
"Madame...", he breathed calmly, "his wrists and ankles remain free. This chain linking his collar to the wall is significantly longer than the previous one and once he is on his feet he will be free to move about the cell. All this chain does is prevent him nearing the cell door".  
Cosette said nothing, having to compose herself so as not to say anything she may have cause to regret.  
With a metallic sound, the padlock of Javert's collar was snapped shut as Monsieur Loiselet completed his work. He was once again tethered to the wall, the dog at the mercy of his masters.  
"I'm sorry...", Monsieur Loiselet simply said and quietly left without another word, the sound of the cell door being pulled slowly shut following him.  
Cosette sharply exhaled a breath as the cell door closed, angered that a simple act of mercy could seemingly not be shown towards a sick man who was no threat to anybody.  
Again she watched, trying as best as she could to calm herself.  
With a glance Cosette noted the light entering the cell through the barred window high up the wall. The sun had come out a little and the shadows the bars cast across the floor had now changed angle with the passing of hours.  
It was Cosette now guessed, late in the afternoon. She had not envisioned spending most of the day here with Javert, having expected instead that he would cast her out and spurn her approaches.  
A conflict now began to surface within Cosette's mind.  
She needed to return hone soon or Marius would return first and worry greatly. She had explained to him her intentions this morning and, despite his reservations on the matter, Marius had relented and accepted that Cosette were determined to see this through.  
His concerns had mainly consisted of discomfort at his wife visiting a 'mad man' and if he arrived home to find her not present she knew he would jump to conclusions and assume something had happened to her. She knew fully that this would be his reaction, such was typical of Marius and it was one of the reasons she adored him so much. He was caring, gentle, tender and yet he worried about the slightest thing upsetting Cosette.  
She knew she needed to return home and explain the days events and revelations to Marius. There was a lot to discuss with him and a lot to think about.  
Yet despite this she did not want to leave Javert. As she watched him she worried that he might worsen, or that he would wake and find himself alone and too weak to reach his much needed water.  
Cosette was torn.  
It was then she heard it. Javert's head fell to one side and his body twitched once again, as if reacting to something only he could see in his unconscious mind.  
Cosette frowned, concerned and yet curious upon having finally heard Javert's weakened voice involuntarily mutter in his sleep.  
She listened closely again, remaining completely silent and wondering why of all words he would be muttering this.  
He twitched once more, his drugged and sleeping mind falling back to years, decades past.  
The words came once again.  
"Gypsy... Thieving... Gypsy..."  
Within Javert the fog of fevered memory drifted back to the late 1780's and a childhood long buried...

The boy sat in the corner of the cell picking dirt from his mud caked feet.  
For most of the day it had rained, turning the courtyard and all outside areas to mud.  
His Mother had returned earlier from her days labour which often varied between washing the uniforms of the guards, making convict smocks, and working away for hours preparing food for the other inmates.  
To the boy the cell was home and he knew nothing different, only that he was free to roam the prison grounds while his mother worked during the day.  
He never questioned the one big difference, the fact that while he was allowed to leave the prison grounds and roam the streets, his mother was not.  
To the boy this was normal and it was all he had ever known.  
"I need you to make yourself scarce this evening son", his mother indicated with her hand, making a gesture to shoo him to his feet from where he sat in the corner.  
The boy got to his feet, his clothing consisting of a pair of ragged trousers and a top stitched by his mother from scrap rags discarded by the women's workhouse which manufactured convict smocks.  
"But I got soaked this afternoon", the boy protested as he stood, "even my hair is still damp".  
His mother moved towards him and ran her fingers through his long dark hair which had never once been cut, working out the damp knots with a brushing action.  
"You didn't bring anything back though did you? Not even a single sous?", she admonished with a shake of her head as she brushed, her own long dark hair similar to that of her sons.  
"I tried the marketplace outside", the boy explained, "there was hardly anybody there. The weather, even half of the traders had gone home. Can't pick a pocket if there's nobody there".  
"Then you can make up for it tonight", his mother insisted as she picked up a piece of twine and some rags from the floor and discarded them into a pile of reject materials she used for sewing "you need to be out this evening before lock up".  
"Why?", the boy quizzed as he watched his mother tidying up their meagre possessions.  
"Patrice, you know him, the special guard. He is coming to our cell tonight for the usual...", his mother paused as if in thought, "...you know full well he pays for a private fortune telling occasionally and I need you out of the way. You'll only be a distraction".  
"Ah...", the boy suddenly understood.  
The boy remembered Patrice, the 'Special guard'. He remembered the arrangement now.  
After each private fortune telling in their cell, Patrice would arrange for a few extra rations of bread or meat to - by convenient accident - be allotted to their cell.  
The boy liked Patrice. He never had much to do with him personally, only passing him occasionally on his rounds when he was on duty, but if he gave them extra rations in exchange for something as simple as a fortune telling a then in the boys eyes that made him good.  
"But what if it rains?", the boy asked, reluctant to set foot outside during this cold and damp evening after the days rain.  
"Then try and stay out of the rain and see if you can pilfer something useful", his mother said briskly, urging her son to leave, "Patrice will be here soon".  
Dejected at the thought of spending an evening out in the cold the boy nodded, moving to the pile of his mothers sewing materials and picking up the small length of twine he had seen his mother discard.  
With one hand he pulled his long hair back, carefully pulling the twine around it and tying it tightly into a pony tail.  
"You should wear your hair down", his mother scolded, "you have beautiful gypsy locks".  
"I like it tied back", the boy answered resentfully, "otherwise it blows in my face in the wind and rain".  
With that he moved towards the door to their cell, looking back at his mother shaking out her hair and adjusting her clothing before he left.  
With no destination in mind he wandered from the cells to the prison courtyard, his feet feeling the chill of every step.  
It had been a long time since he had owned any footwear.  
His last pair of boots had come from a charitable donation of cast offs donated by the nearby church for the children being raised by the female inmates of the prison.  
The boots had fitted nicely and for quite some time but had worn out beyond all repair in recent weeks, much to the boys despair.  
As he walked he felt the first few spits of rain begin to fall. An evening wandering the prison grounds was not something he had in mind tonight.  
Having spent the day loitering in the wet marketplace unsuccessfully lying in wait for a vulnerable pocket to pick, all the boy had wanted to do was curl up in the dry and go to sleep, preferably in his mothers arms with her shawl wrapped around them both for warmth.  
The rain began to intensify, the spits of rain fast becoming a heavy shower.  
Cold and wet, the boy looked around, first left and then right in search of shelter.  
Across the courtyard an open door caught his eye. Momentarily he hesitated, fully understanding that this small building before him was one of the few inside the prison grounds that was off limits to him - the guards mess room.  
He moved forward with caution, his cold and wet feet heading towards the forbidden doorway.  
Within moments he was there, seemingly unseen by anybody.  
He would not enter, he decided, he would stand just within the doorway to shelter until the rain passed.  
The rain continued unabated as he stood, lashing down and forming puddles throughout the courtyard.  
Finally the boy turned around, looking into the guards mess room with curiosity. He had never seen in this room before.  
It was lit dimly by candles flickering on a table that was located in the centre of the room.  
Upon the table were several cups, a jug of water and some paperwork.  
Several metal hooks were fixed to the wall on the far side of the room from which hung the coats of several guards.  
The boy eyed them with keen interest remembering his mother scolding him for his failure to bring back anything of use during the afternoon.  
He took a single step into the room, cautiously looking around to confirm to himself that nobody was present, then another step, eyes fixed on the tempting coats.  
Several steps later he found himself stood in front of the coats, a sense of heightened alert coursing through his body at the thought of stealing not from a passer by in the street but an actual guard of the prison.  
He reached into the pocket of the first coat and felt around with his fingers.  
With disappointment he removed his hand. Nothing, the pocket was empty.  
He moved to the next coat and tried again.  
His hand felt something metal, "Coins!", he beamed proudly.  
Once more removing his hand he examined his findings. It added up to just a few sous, but it was money.  
He relaxed somewhat, breathing out in the assurance that his mother would be pleased with him, that it would make up for his earlier failure.  
If he could keep this up and find some more he would be able to go to the market and buy some decent quality food to bring back and supplement the substandard prison rations their little family survived on.  
Carefully he moved the money to his trouser pocket and moved on to the next coat with increased confidence.  
Once more he dipped his hand in, this time feeling a single much thicker coin.  
He removed it with anticipation and his mouth fell open as he looked upon his find.  
"A five Franc coin!", he beamed in disbelief.  
He had seen one before, exchanged in the market, but had never been able to get close enough to hold or even steal one.  
To the boy a five Franc coin was the equivalent of winning a jackpot and it needed to be taken good care of.  
His mother had long ago stitched an inner pocket to the inside of his trousers so that, in the event of the boy having his pockets searched by a guard or policeman, nothing untoward would be found.  
He placed the coin into the secret pocket and moved on to the next coat, barely able to imagine how pleased his mother would be when he returned with such a haul.  
It was then that his confidence was shattered by a tremendous crash echoing suddenly around the room like thunder, causing the boy to jump in fright.  
He spun around in terror, his heart racing as his eyes met those of the guard who had entered unseen.  
A truncheon lay on the table where the guard had struck it hard to disturb the small intruder.  
"Boy!", the guard shouted as he stepped rapidly forwards, "What in the name if all that's Holy do you think you are doing!?".  
The boy was rooted to the spot, quaking with fear.  
"I... I...", he stammered, looking all around for an exit. There was no exit, only the door through which he had entered which the guard was obstructing.  
"You're coming to the Sergeant's office, that's what you're doing!", the guard barked with eyes of sheer anger, "Thieving little gypsy!".  
The guard reached out with a strong hand, roughly grabbing the boys pony tail. He then marched briskly towards the mess room door using the pony tail to forcibly haul the boy along next to him, forcing him forwards each time his steps fell out of line.  
The Sergeant's office was a short walk beyond the courtyard, away from the cells and part of a building of a more administrative nature.  
The guard dragged his small prisoner into the main building and knocked on the first door on the left.  
"Come!", a stern voice called from behind it.  
The guard opened the door, the boy raising his hands to his Pony tail in a last desperate struggle to free his hair from the iron grin that trapped him.  
The door swung open and the guard stepped in, dragging the boy into the office with a forceful jerk of his arm.  
"Sergeant, I apologise for the disturbance at this hour", the guard bowed his head briefly in respect and removed his hat with with other hand, "but this boy has been caught thieving from guards property in the courtyard mess room".  
The sergeant slowly rose to his feet from where he sat, placing his hands firmly on the desk and looking down upon the boy stood before him in a manner that was far beyond intimidating.  
The boy trembled as he looked at the Sergeant. He was tall, with a stern moustache, wearing a dark grey uniform with a large belt.  
Placed on a shelf just behind him sat a large black hat, a shako, adorned with a white pompom, a red white and blue rosette and a brass plate in the image of an eagle. At the bottom it bore a fine golden chin strap and next to it sat a pair of black leather gloves.  
"He's the son of one of the women prisoners", the guard added as he watched the Sergeant look the boy over.  
"Yes, the gypsy whore's little thug", the Sergeant nodded in recognition staring at the boy, "Javert isn't it?".  
The boy was silent, eyes locked straight ahead and visibly attempting to conceal just how much he was trembling.  
"Answer when you are spoken to boy!", the Sergeant suddenly shouted and banged his fist hard on the desk in anger.  
The boy jumped in response, his eyes wide in shock.  
"Go on then answer me, are you or are you not the gypsy whore's son, Javert?", the Sergeant asked, this time his voice lower but remaining full of malice.  
"Yes Monsieur...", the boy answered, "...Javert".  
Slowly the Sergeant moved from where he stood, striding slowly around the desk and halting in front of the boy.  
"But...", Javert spoke, looking up to the Sergeant and then stopping immediately, averting his eyes downward.  
"You wish to add something boy?", the Sergeant demanded, "Well out with it!".  
Javert paused, biting his lip nervously before speaking.  
"But my mother is not a whore", he corrected, "she's a fortune teller."  
Despite his young age, Javert knew the meaning of the word whore, it was impossible not to know words such as this in the world he inhabited.  
"Oh a 'fortune teller', is that what it's called now?", the Sergeant mocked.  
Javert felt strange. He knew he was in a great deal of trouble and he feared the Sergeant greatly but he felt tremendous offence and hurt at the insulting insinuation being laid at his mother.  
"She does readings for people, prisoners, sometimes even guards", Javert defended, "she gives them tarot readings, palm readings...".  
"She gives them something alright", the Sergeant abruptly cut Javert off mid sentence.  
The guard still holding him securely by his pony tail let out a deep laugh at the Sergeants words.  
Javert gritted his teeth, his emotions a mixture of fear at the Sergeant and both anger and sadness at the offensive slurs directed at his mother.  
"Oh we know she has an arrangement with someone amongst our men", the Sergeant revealed, "and we will find out who eventually".  
Javert said nothing, staring again straight ahead to the back wall of the office. He knew this was a tactic, the Sergeant applying pressure to force Javert into revealing just which guard gave them extra in exchange for readings and fortune tellings, but it would not work, he was young not stupid.  
He would not betray Patrice. The extra rations Patrice arranged always appeared, from where he did not know, but they always appeared as promised. To reveal his identity over something as trivial as a mere tarot or palm reading session just to save himself a punishment would be unfair.  
"I know your mothers record Javert. I am familiar with the crimes of all who reside here. Your mother was giving readings in a tent late one night at a traveling fair when a man thought to be wealthy requested a reading...".  
Javert listened, never having heard anything of the sort before.  
"The man had his reading and being quite satisfied he paid up and began to leave", the Sergeants story continued.  
"But that's what she does Monsieur" Javert attempted to explain, an overwhelming urge growing within him to defend his mother and explain that their ways were harmless.  
"Your father murdered the man as he left".  
Javert's young heart skipped a beat as the Sergeant spoke his words. Initially the young boy thought he had misheard the Sergeant, taking a moment for his mind to relay the words over once more - "Your father murdered the man as he left".  
"I see you were not aware of this", the Sergeant observed as he watched the boy attempt to hide the stunned expression his face had briefly displayed, "Your father slit the mans throat as he left. Your parents were caught thieving valuables and money from this wealthy mans body. It would seem they had been preoccupied with their victim and unaware of the approaching police patrol. It was a bloody crime and your parents were quite literally caught red handed, blood red".  
Composing himself Javert stood up straight and defiant, shaking his head as he refused to accept the words he had just heard.  
"I never met my father", the boy spoke once more looking straight ahead, "my mother is a fortune teller... My mother is a fortune teller...".  
Javert was conscious of the Sergeant watching him for a reaction. He fought to remain calm, to bury the anger he felt at these cruel lies spoken about the father he never knew and the mother who had raised him with so little.  
He would not give them the satisfaction, it was lies, all lies, every word of it.  
"Your father is serving life in the galleys for murder. Life in the galleys is a slow death sentence and I suspect that after seven years your father is almost certainly dead", the Sergeant continued his point, "Your mother is seven years into a twenty five year sentence as an accomplice to murder".  
Javert stood stock still. This could not be true. If this story were true why had he never been told, why had he grown up not knowing anything of it?  
Why would his mother have lied to him about why they lived in a prison?  
No. Javert discarded these thoughts, casting them aside and mentally chastising himself for even entertaining the possibility that such accusations might be true.  
It was clear to him that the Sergeant was trying to plant a seed of doubt within his mind and he would not fall for it.  
"You are not convinced, it is of no consequence", the Sergeant noted, "what is of consequence is what happens to you now Javert".  
Both Javert and the Sergeant cast their eyes to the stolen money on the desk.  
"You have stolen from my men and you will be punished", the Sergeant announced.  
Javert's body tensed, awaiting whatever was to come next.  
"There are three ways in which I can deal with this", the Sergeant spoke and slowly began to pace the room as if in thought.  
"Firstly, you are your mothers responsibility while here. I can return you to her cell and place her solitary for two weeks for failing to control her wayward son...".  
Javert's heart sank at the very thought. He had stolen the money specifically for his mother to make up for his earlier failure. For her to be punished for his misdeed when he had hoped the money could be used to buy them extra food made him feel sick.  
"Secondly, I could turn you over to the guards who's mess room you robbed. You can be absolutely assured that they will take you behind the barracks and deliver a thrashing the likes of which you have never imagined..."  
Javert's stomach churned in terror. He had once seen guards dealing with a raging male prisoner who had assaulted and knocked out one of their own.  
The convict had been subdued with riffle butts, truncheons and heavy kicks before the melee had been broken up. The man had been a bloodied mess as he had been dragged away to solitary.  
"Or thirdly, I can deal with you myself. You will be punished, indeed Javert you need a deterrent, but although I am harsh I am also fair.".  
The three possibilities ran riot through Javert's mind. He couldn't allow his mother to suffer for something he had done for her, but the guards would beat him to a bloody pulp, and the Sergeant terrified him.  
"You are at a crossroads Javert", the Sergeant explained, "Your loyalty to your mother is honourable, an admirable trait in a young boy, yet you have within you the makings of a terrible thug. Javert if you continue on this path then it's the chain gang or galleys for you".  
Javert remained still, taking in the words whilst still pondering the three terrible possibilities and which of them was to happen.  
"Or you can turn away from the life of thieving your mother has set you on. I know you don't believe a word I have spoken about her but...", the Sergeant paused looking the boy in the eyes, "...should anything happen to make you reconsider that way of life I want you to come to this office and find me".  
Javert still remained silent.  
"Now which is it to be? Solitary for your mother, hand you over to the guards, or take care of you myself?", the Sergeant barked briskly, an answer clearly required immediately.  
Javert's young mind scrambled to think, his mind fighting the confusion caused by the Sergeants words, one moment slandering his mother and the next complimenting his sense of loyalty.  
"You!", Javert suddenly heard himself cry, "You Monsieur".  
The Sergeant nodded slowly as if sensing the correct choice had been made.  
"A wise decision, and a selfless act to save your mother", the Sergeant noted, "you posses qualities you never knew you had, there may be hope for you yet boy".  
Javert tensed, waiting for whatever was to come next and trying his hardest not to show fear in front of an enemy.  
"Guard", the Sergeant spoke up in the direction of the man still stood behind Javert, "remove your belt and pass it to me, I believe it will suffice".  
Javert held his head up high, his pulse racing upon hearing the Sergeants order. He would not show fear, he must not show fear, he could not show fear.  
"Boy... Javert", the Sergeant turned to address him much more formally taking the belt as it was handed to him, "bend over and put your hands on the desk".  
Javert stepped forward, doing exactly as ordered. He closed his eyes tight and gritted his teeth as he heard the footsteps of the Sergeant move alongside him.  
It was over in no less than two minutes, after which the boy had been promptly dispatched from the building and told to return to his mothers cell.  
"The matter is now closed", had been the Sergeants final words as he had left.  
Every slow step Javert took was agony.  
The rain had subsided and his feet squelched in the mud as he attempted to walk, his body shaking from both pain and shock.  
He moved nearer to the walls as he reached the courtyard, having to put a hand to the wall to steady himself.  
He had held back during his punishment but now alone, streams of tears ran down his face as he quietly sobbed from the pain every single step caused him.  
The Sergeant had administered a dozen hard lashes of the belt across Javert's buttocks and the boy now struggled to place one foot in front of the other to walk.  
After stopping briefly to compose himself he slowly limped on, hoping the pain would subside. It did not, the stinging of his backside caused him to whimper like a wounded dog with every step.  
How would he hide this from his mother, he wondered.  
If she found out what had happened she would scold him for drawing attention to them.  
As he limped on at his slow pace he concluded that he would have to sleep on his front tonight, it was unlikely he would be able to do so much as sit down for at least a day or two, such had been the ferocity of the Sergeants strikes.  
Finally he reached the side of the courtyard which lead to their cell, his home.  
He would have to make up a story, say that he fell climbing a wall to explain his limping. His mother need not see the marks inevitably left across his buttocks.  
In the distance he saw the door to their cell. From beneath the tears a smile began to creep across the boys face.  
Something he had forgotten about was now creeping back into his mind.  
He stopped, the pain still throbbing tremendously as he reached inside his trousers to the hidden inner pocket.  
The five Franc coin was still there. He had forgotten it the moment the guard had discovered him.  
His smile became a smirk and he nodded to himself through his tear stained face, satisfied that after having been forced to listen to such malicious and hurtful lies being spoken about his mother, and having endured the belt, he had now beaten the system.  
The five Franc coin was still there and his mother would be pleased. She might even let him treat himself to some small confectionary from the market if change remained after buying food.  
It felt to the boy that the coin itself was compensation. To hear such lies spoken against his mother had been a terribly hurtful thing for him to bare.  
His mother was a fortune teller and nothing more. They lived in a prison because the world didn't like gypsies, that was all. There was nothing more to it.  
Another tremendous sting took his attention and he slowed his pace, the terrible pain a constant reminder of his punishment just as it had been intended to be.  
He wanted nothing more than to ease himself down onto the floor of their cell and go to sleep, he wanted his mothers shawl and a little warmth.  
A few more steps from his dreadfully pained body and he would be there.  
His mothers reaction to the coin would make up for all that had occurred this evening.  
One pained step at a time and Javert neared the cell door.  
It was pulled shut but unlocked.  
Suddenly he paused, his keen ears having heard something.  
He listened again from outside the door.  
It was his mothers voice but in a way he had never heard it before.  
It came again, a moan.  
Javert's nerves jumped, assuming that if his mother were making a moaning sound she must be ill.  
Gently he pulled the cell door open just a little, enough for him to look through the gap with one eye.  
It was then his mouth fell open, had he been holding the five franc coin at that moment he would have dropped it.  
A shockwave surged through Javert's body, feeling as if his very being had just shattered, cracked and was about to crumble to pieces.  
Before his very eyes Patrice had his mother in the corner of the cell up against the wall.  
Patrice's trousers were around his ankles, his hat and boots discarded on the floor and his mothers top and skirt lying nearby. Patrice's tunic and shirt lay near the door in a crumpled heap.  
Javert watched as his mothers nails raked up and down Patrice's back as the guard jerked increasingly hard up against her with increasing ferocity, the pair of them moaning with excitement at every action.  
Finally Patrice's moans culminated in a sound that was akin to a roar as he gave one last jerk, his mother too crying out in a way Javert had never heard from anyone before.  
Javert stood there unseen, gritting his teeth tightly like a wolf baring it's fangs, seething anger pulsing through his blood like liquid fire.  
The couple before him moved, sliding down the wall and onto the floor of the cell, his mother onto her back and Patrice atop, his hand eagerly fondling a breast.  
"Won't the boy be back soon?", Patrice whispered almost breathless.  
"I sent him packing for the evening", his mother breathed enjoying the touch of the guard, "he won't bother us".  
Patrice lowered himself slowly forward, placing a finger before Javert's mothers lips, a finger she keenly took into her mouth seductively whilst never taking her eyes from Patrice's own eyes.  
"Then you know what I like", Patrice urged, licking his lips in excitement at the prospect as his finger was sucked.  
"You know that costs extra", his mother whispered gently pulling the finger from her mouth as if to deny Patrice that which he so desperately wanted.  
"I'll pay, by God woman I'll pay", Patrice nodded quickly, climbing off Javert's mother, rising naked to his feet and pulling the woman to her knees before him.  
Javert closed his eyes tight and turned away.  
He had both seen and heard much more than enough.  
The very thought that he had been "sent packing" out of the cell that was his home so his mother could engage in this secret filth with Patrice stabbed at him like a sharp blade.  
The fire coursing through his veins intensified as he thought, his hands becoming fists and his entire body shaking with absolute unbridled fury.  
A realisation dawned on Javert - while he had being caught stealing, while he had fiercely and wholeheartedly defended his mother from allegations that sickened him, his mother had at the very same time had been obliging Patrice with whatever gratification he desired from her body, whilst just across the yard her son was being belted for the theft of just a few sous.  
It was as if he could explode at that very moment.  
Slowly he turned, the agonising pain from his stinging backside reminding him of everything said and done that evening.  
He felt as if a veil of falsehood had suddenly been lifted from his eyes, his neatly settled world rocked to its foundation by the revealing of a truth so hideous it made him almost vomit.  
Every word the Sergeant had spoken, every single word of it had been true.  
His mother was a whore, selling her body to the whims of any man with the money to pay.  
His blood boiled.  
If the whore allegations were true, Javert concluded, then the story of the wealthy man's murder must be also be true. A man had died gruesomely just so his parents could make off with whatever wealth he carried. He again fought a feeling of nausea as this truth began to settle upon his young soul.  
Slowly he limped away from the cell, wincing from the sharp pain caused by every step. He wanted to run, to get as far away as possible but the slowest of steps was all his hurting body would allow him.  
His slow pace eventually returned him to where all this had begun across the courtyard.  
The door to the guards mess room was still ajar and once more there was nobody about.  
With pain and a whimper he wiped his muddy feet outside the door and stepped inside.  
Briskly he reached into the hidden pocket of his trousers, removing the five Franc coin he had earlier been so proud of stealing.  
Now he wanted nothing more than to be rid of it.  
Looking up he identified the coat hanging from the third hook as the one he had stolen the coin from.  
"Hardworking" and "honest" were the words Javert recalled the Sergeant using to describe his men, men who had earned this money, money that he had stolen without a second thought.  
He wondered, had his parents given the wealthy man a second thought as he was murdered at their hands?  
Quickly Javert placed the coin back into the pocket.  
It was an act that felt almost cleansing, washing away his eagerness to steal for his mothers praise.  
His eagerness was gone.  
Slowly he limped back to the door, not caring this time if a guard caught him. They could do no worse to him tonight than his mother already had.  
Unsteady on his feet he limped away from the mess room, wiping his tears with the back of his hand, his cold wet nose sniffling as he staggered.  
His thoughts dug deep as he limped, an overwhelming desire rose within him to wash away all links with his parents and his thieving gypsy blood.  
He was unsure of quite what to do and continued to hobble through the squelching mud until he reached the prison gates.  
Although the hour was getting late there were no restrictions on Javert himself leaving the prison.  
Seeing him approach, the bored looking guard stationed on duty at the entrance opened the heavy gate wooden, allowing the boy to pass through.  
"It's late boy", the guard observed as he watched Javert head out into the street, "go careful out there".  
Javert said nothing, lost in his whirling thoughts as he wished with all his heart that what he had seen wasn't true.  
"Ignorant gypsy...", he heard the guard mutter at his failure to reply as the gate was heaved shut behind him.  
He felt lost and for the first time, so alone.  
So many thoughts churned through his mind as he took slow painful steps through the dark streets. He did not wish to return to his mother, not now, not now he knew the truth, all of the truth.  
He could live on the streets like the gamin and survive reasonably well by pickpocketing, but no...  
The thought of depriving honest people of the money they worked hard for now repulsed him. To do so would be to use the skills his mother had taught him and he would inevitably grow to become just like his parents.  
He stopped, breathless and finally unable to take another step forward due to the pain consuming his young body both physically and emotionally, and looked down as he realised that the Sergeant was right.  
He was indeed at a crossroads, if he continued in his parents footsteps he would indeed find himself in the chain gang or galleys by the time he became a man. He shook his head at the thought, remembering the battered state of the violent convict he saw the guards subdue recently.  
He didn't want to become like that, those people were scum, filthy robbing, murdering scum.  
Finally Javert looked up, his tear filled eyes staring up at the stars that shone bright in this clear night as another possibility dawned on him.  
He needed to go away, and he needed to think.

It was a week later when the half starved boy returned to the prison, the guards obligingly opening the gate for him to stumble through.  
His limp had finally gone but he was weak through hunger.  
Unusually the boy did not head for the usual destination of his mothers cell, instead heading in the direction of the administrative building the other side of the courtyard which housed the Sergeants office.  
Within an hour of Javert's return Patrice was summoned to the Sergeant's office and dismissed on the spot.  
Rumour quickly spread through the prison that it was due to some sort of impropriety with female inmates and theft of rations intended for sick prisoners in the infirmary. According to the prison gossips the only thing that saved Patrice from being arrested was his long and distinguished record.  
Shortly after this a boy took up residence in the barn next to the stables, sleeping on the warm bales of hay stored there for the horses.  
The boy earned his keep polishing the guards boots in exchange for a few sous, a job he learned to perform to an extremely high standard, not returning a single boot until he could almost see his own reflection in it.  
After some months he had earned the respect of the guards and was often invited to eat with them in the same mess room he had robbed almost a year earlier.  
Slowly he learned to read and write, coached by several guards as he ate with them.  
Eventually a space was cleared and he was instructed to move from the barn and into the guards barracks.  
The boy began to fill out, growing stronger and looking far healthier, his hair always tied neatly back in a long pony tail and his clothing improved with the honest money he saved.  
It was shortly after this that an outbreak of sickness many feared to be cholera struck down the a large number of the prison population.  
One of the many to die during outbreak was the boys mother.  
Even the Sergeant had been surprised at how few tears the boy had shed before excusing himself from the Sergeants presence and returning to his work.  
As the years passed this loner of a boy cared little for the world outside, educating himself in the rules and regulations of the prison system and often shadowing the guards as they worked, all the while making a mental note of routines, problems, solutions and methods.  
Finally the day came when the ageing Sergeant was to retire, his final act being to summon the boy, now a solitary yet polite and respectful young man, to his office.  
His parting gesture to the young man was to hand over a letter of recommendation, insisting that the boy fulfil his obvious ambition and apply to become a prison guard.  
"You have done well boy. Over the years I have watched you grow from a whelp who blindly does the bidding of others to the young man of great potential I see stood before me now. You are strong, hard working and one of the most honest young men I have ever met. I will admit I shall miss this place, but you will make a fine prison guard. Just remember... Be harsh, be firm, but also be fair. Never take advantage, treat all equally and punish only those who require it.  
Follow these rules to the letter and the convicts you deal with will come to both fear and respect the name of Javert".

End chapter 5.


End file.
